


Chains and Handcuffs (50 shades of awkward)

by Lyrial



Series: Fifty Shades of Awkward [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bunker Fluff, Cas is supernanny, Case Fic, Crack with Plot, Dean is a giant troll, Demon Cure, Demon!Dean, First Time, Handcuffed Together, M/M, Sam is just pissed, Wing Kink, a romantic comedy with demons, comedy and fluff interspersed with angst, demonic prank war armageddon, post s9
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-02
Updated: 2014-09-01
Packaged: 2018-02-03 04:01:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 98,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1730393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyrial/pseuds/Lyrial
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Dean abuses his new demonic powers for the umpteenth time, Sam gets fed up and stages an intervention. Castiel is assigned to demon-sitting duty, but when his new charge still manages to fly the coop, Sam decides that more drastic measures must be taken. It is terribly awkward for everybody involved… until it’s not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Curious Incident of the Pie in the Night-Time

**Author's Note:**

> Just a few things to note before we begin: This fic is set somewhere in the middle of a hypothetical season 10 and as such, will have **SPOILERS** for everything up till season 9.
> 
> The premise of this fic assumes that Cas has resolved all the problems with his stolen grace and is now a full angel again. Dean went full on crazy demon at the start, but was later tracked down by Cas and Sam and injected with enough human blood to bring him to the brink of humanity. Sam and Cas are now trying their best to rehabilitate Dean, who is still a demon.
> 
> Ok, that's it with the assumptions. On with the fic!

 

 

 

As with most things to do with Dean Winchester, it all starts with some pie.

 

The Pie Incident, as Sam has taken to calling it, happens on a Tuesday- a day Sam is starting to associate uncomfortably with Dean-related tragedies.

It has been some time since he and Cas tracked Dean down, forcibly removed the First Blade from him, and injected him with enough human blood to curb even the most homicidal of his demonic killing urges. Ever since then, Dean has been under general house arrest in the Bunker, much to his extremely vocal displeasure. By tacit agreement, Sam and Cas have been taking turns to keep an eye on him while trying to figure out what to do with the new Dean.

Dean, who hated enforced inactivity even as a human, has been expressing his discontent with this arrangement in numerous little ways, which mostly seems to mean annoying the hell out of Sam.

After what seems to be the millionth time of hearing Dean whine about wanting to go out and get some pie, Sam finally snaps.

“God damn it, Dean. Will you shut up about pie already?” he says, “You don’t even need to eat!”

At first, Dean just looks at him like Sam just suggested that Dean kill his favorite puppy. Then, his features resolve themselves into an expression uncannily similar to what Dean likes to call Sam’s ‘bitchface’.

“Dude. Just because I don’t _need_ to eat pie, doesn’t mean I don’t _want_ to eat pie.”

“Suck it up,” Sam says without an ounce of guilt. Whatever sympathy he might once have had has been slowly but irrevocably burnt away under the constant onslaught of Dean-related annoyances.

Dean looks at him with a hurt expression. “I have rights, y’know. Basic demon rights.”

In return, Sam just gives him the bitchface ™.

“C’mon, Sammy,” Dean wheedles. “Just a little pie. I haven’t had pie for _months_.”

Sam glares at him. “And whose fault is that?” he asks nastily. “You’ve had plenty of time for pie the last few months, but hey, instead of indulging in fruity desserts, what were you doing? Oh that’s right, you were indulging in _murder sprees_. So I think it’s fair to say that you can go without pie for a few months more.”

Dean glares at Sam with an air of someone who had been greatly aggrieved.

“Justice is dead,” he declares in a wounded tone, clutching an arm to his breast dramatically.

Sam ignores him, because he has to go on a hunt the next morning and he needs his sleep and he has absolutely no time for any more of Dean’s ridiculous nonsense.

That is, perhaps, his first mistake.

 

* * *

 

When Sam returns to the Bunker after his hunt, he is exhausted, covered in blood and nursing the world’s worst headache. He clomps down the stairs slowly, each heavy step a ringing knell of weary frustration. It is when he reaches the last step that he sees Dean.

Dean is lounging on the long table in the war room, smirking at Sam like the cat that got the canary, every bit the picture of smug decadence.

“Heya Sammy,” he says brightly and gives Sam a cheery little wave.

Sam’s eyes narrow. On the best of days, Dean is sullen and spiteful. An absence of non-stop whining is a warning sign. Dean in a good mood is a sure sign of disaster. He looks around, half expecting to find the rest of the Bunker in flames, or Cas lying dead on the floor somewhere.

“Dean. What have you done?” Sam says warningly, his hand inching towards the demon-killing knife he keeps tucked in his waistband. It won’t do much against Dean, but it would be a reassuring weight in his hand nevertheless.

Dean looks at him with an expression of wounded innocence.

“Why do you always think I’m up to something bad?” he asks, spreading his arms nonchalantly. “I didn’t do anything, Sammy. Really.”

Sam stares at him implacably, eyes narrowed in a flinty-eyed glare of suspicion. Dean just smiles back at him beatifically. His smile would have made the most hardened and cynical criminal judge crack.

It doesn’t work on Sam.

“Where’s Cas?” Sam says.

“Oh, he’s probably in the kitchen or something,” Dean says airily.

Sam throws him one last suspicious glance, before turning to walk to the kitchen to find Cas. Still smiling, Dean pads after him, whistling merrily. It does nothing good for Sam’s nerves, and he feels the urge to duct tape Dean’s mouth shut rising.

When Sam arrives at the kitchen, the first thing he notices is the smell.

He didn’t notice it before, what with the ever-present stink of sulfur that comes from being anywhere within a 15 foot radius of Dean. But the rich, sweet scent of mouth-watering dessert assaults his nostrils the moment he steps into the kitchen, and before Sam even lays eyes on the disaster zone that their kitchen has become, he knows what Dean has done.

Almost every square inch of the Bunker’s kitchen is covered with pie. Pies of every size and filling litter every surface. Small pies, big pies, fruit pies, dessert pies, savory pies. Pies a la mode. Freshly baked pies in pans, still steaming hot from the oven. Half-eaten pies. Empty plates stained with pie filling and littered with crumbs. It’s all here. In their kitchen.

Sam’s unbelieving eyes slowly take in the full spread that now occupies their kitchen table. He spies blueberry pie, lemon meringue pie, key lime pie, shepherd’s pie, mince pie, peach cobbler, steak and kidney pie— Eventually Sam’s brain just stops processing in a bid for self-preservation. It seems to Sam that every pie that was ever invented must now be sitting in their kitchen. It is practically gastronomical heaven for pie-lovers.

Sam thinks he is going to have a coronary.

Cas looks up guiltily from where he was digging into an apple pie. His spoon droops, and a piece of perfectly flaked pie crust topped with vanilla ice cream and swelling with rich golden filling dribbles slowly back down onto the plate.

Sam glares, furious, and Castiel looks away shamefacedly, like a dog that just got caught chewing the shoes. The evidence of his wrongdoing still stains his lips, smudges of cream and crumbs and what looks suspiciously like blueberry filling.

“Hey Cas,” Dean says cheerily as he comes up behind Sam. His eyes are alight with devilish glee.

Smirking, he tells Cas, “You’ve got a little something there-" and points at his upper lip.

Cas starts and his fingers come up to brush hesitantly at his lips, dislodging a few crumbs and removing some of the blueberry stains.

“Oh,” he says, looking down bemusedly at the crumb-flecked cream on his fingers. Almost unconsciously, he raises a finger to lick at it, but aborts the motion hastily when Sam clears his throat loudly and glares with pointed disapproval.

Cas seems to deflate, and he looks down at the floor with a hangdog expression. Sam cannot see Dean’s expression, but he’d bet anything that Dean is smirking evilly.

“Cas,” Sam says slowly, “How did this happen?”

Cas mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like “Dean said he wanted pie” before resuming his intense staring contest with the kitchen floor tiles.

Sam grits his teeth and has to resist the urge to yell. It looks like he can’t leave Dean alone for a day without him getting up to some kind of trouble. Isn’t Cas supposed to be the responsible one around here? Aren’t angels supposed to be incorruptible or something? Pie isn’t even that great a tool of temptation, damn it. Who would have thought an Angel of the Lord would be so easily bribed by sugary treats?

Sam shakes his head in despair. _How the mighty have fallen._

He turns around to face Dean and says firmly, “Put everything back. Right now. All of it.”

Completely unrepentant, Dean just raises an eyebrow and looks at him challengingly. “What? Even the half-eaten ones?”

“Yes,” Sam grits out, “ _Even the half-eaten ones_.”

Dean tilts his head to one side and pretends to consider the question. “How about… _no._ ”

“Return the pies, Dean. I’m not going to ask twice.”

Dean sticks out his tongue. “ _Make me_ ,” he says.

Sam feels as though he might explode from anger. This is probably what most parents with teenagers feel on a daily basis.

“I have a fully loaded angel here, and I’m not afraid to use him,” he warns Dean.

Dean sneers at them. “There’s nothing he can do to me. I’m a Knight of Hell, remember?” He sniffs haughtily and takes a taunting bite of Castiel’s forgotten apple pie. “Your petty threats don’t frighten me.”

“Cas,” Sam says dangerously, “Restrain Dean.”

Eager to make up for his earlier misdeeds, Cas hastens to obey. Dean squawks indignantly as he is grabbed from behind. He squirms in Castiel’s grasp, kicking out weakly. “Let go of me, featherbrain,” he growls.

Sam steps forward. “Maybe we can’t do anything to you,” he tells Dean pointedly, “But I sure as hell can do loads to your pie.”

He reaches for the closest pie pan and upends it on the floor. Dean stares flabbergasted at him.

The pecan pie, now in pieces, lays sadly on the kitchen floor, a sad mush of brown sludge and splattered pie bits.

Dean looks at it in shell-shock. “That was perfectly good pie,” he says indignantly, a note of sorrow in his voice.

Sam gives him a stern look. “This is what you get for stealing things,” he informs Dean.

Dean looks at him as if Sam were possessed by Lucifer himself.

“You are _pure evil_ ,” he spits. He gazes mournfully at the smashed bits of pie on the floor. “Ruining perfectly good pie.” He adds under his breath, “Even _I_ would never stoop so low.”

Sam takes another pie dish in hand.

“You wanna try me?”

Glaring furiously, Dean shakes Castiel’s hold off. With a snap of his fingers, all the pies disappear, leaving the kitchen looking startlingly bare.

“I am going to make your life a living _hell_ ,” Dean hisses, leaning in close to glare at Sam threateningly.

Sam just meets his furious gaze calmly and says challengingly, “ _Do your worst_.”

He begins to regret that in the coming days.


	2. Demonic Prank War Armageddon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean retaliates. The War begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Go listen to the songs as they come up in the chapter. Guaranteed 100%* more comedic value.
> 
> *Disclaimer: Mileage may vary depending on your sense of humor. For reference, I derive endless amusement from the HEYAYAYA song. Make of that what you will.

The Pie Incident turns out to be the opening salvo in what Sam later comes to refer to as the Great Demonic Prank War.

It starts with minor annoyances.

One day, Sam is in the shower, soaping himself and enjoying the really rather good water pressure of the Bunker’s showers when the water abruptly turns ice-cold. Yelping, Sam paws blindly behind him to shut the spray off, but even after he turns the handle, the water does not stop. Instead, Sam is showered with a deluge of freezing water as he frantically yanks at the handle, cursing furiously.

“Dean!” he yells, “I know it’s you! Stop it!”

The water turns searing hot in response. Sam screams and stumbles out of the shower, dripping wet and cursing up a storm.

“Son of a bitch!” he howls, and wraps a towel around his waist before running out of the bathroom to hunt his bastard of a brother down. Sam ends up dripping water all over the Bunker, but no wiser as to Dean’s whereabouts. Instead, smug laughter echoes eerily around the room as Sam fumes, sinking down onto a chair at the kitchen table in exhausted defeat. Water puddles around his feet and the chair is all wet, but Sam doesn’t care.

“Is that the best you can do?” he says to the empty air and gives Dean’s invisible presence the finger. “Screw you!”

Phantom laughter follows him all the way back to the bedroom.

 

* * *

 

There are no more problems with the showers for the next few days, and Sam begins to hope that perhaps Dean’s childish pranking impulses might have passed. After an uneventful shower (the fifth this week), he towels himself dry and steps out of the shower, reaching out for his clothing, only to find his hand meeting empty air.

 _Shit_ , he thinks. _What is Dean up to now?_

Frowning, Sam wraps his towel around himself and walks to his wardrobe. He flings the doors open and is confronted with a startling sight. Rows of tiny frilly ballerina dresses in every eye-searing shade of pink fill the cupboard. His usual clothes are nowhere to be seen.

“Dean!” Sam roars. “Where are my clothes, you fucker?”

 

Sam ends up throwing away all the frilly dresses. He goes around the Bunker for the rest of the day in a large blue bathrobe he borrows from Cas.

It is, he tells himself (not very convincingly), not at all humiliating.

 

* * *

 

 

Eventually, Sam’s clothing reappears mysteriously in his closet. Sam returns Castiel’s bathrobe and puts on a plaid shirt for the first time in four days. It feels surprisingly good, like Sam is finally whole again (though Sam would rather kill himself than admit that to anyone).

Once again respectably clothed, Sam is walking down the Bunker hallways when suddenly he feels an inexplicable, sharp tug at his undergarments. He jerks, startled, and hears badly concealed sniggering. He turns around to face Dean, but finds himself glaring at empty air.

“Real mature, Dean,” Sam grouses. “Wedgies, really? What are you, five?”

Muttering vile imprecations about Dean’s parentage under his breath, Sam strides off. He has more important things to do than to pander to Dean’s childish whims.

He is going to ignore this. Responding will only vindicate Dean, and Sam isn't going to give him the satisfaction.

 

* * *

 

After the fifth time Sam startles awake in the middle of the night to the strains of Eye of the Tiger, he begins to seriously reconsider his resolution against murdering Dean. On the bedside table, the light from Sam’s electronic alarm clock winks at him. ‘3:32’ it shows, in large blinking numerals.

Sam groans.

“Dean!” he yells at the ceiling after flopping back down on the bed wearily. “If you don’t stop this fuckery immediately, I am going to throw so much holy water on you you’ll be smoking for weeks!”

Sam’s television switches itself on with a crackle of static. On screen, Leonardo DiCaprio holds Kate Winslet tight in his arms as the dulcet tones of Celine Dion begin to fill the room. Sam puts a pillow over his head and moans piteously.

Eventually, he manages to fall asleep, lulled not so much by the sweet strains of Hearts Going On, but by the much sweeter fantasies of him wrapping his fingers around Dean’s neck and squeezing tight until the smug bastard finally stopped laughing.

 

* * *

 

Over the next few days, electronic devices around Sam begin mysteriously malfunctioning. Sam walks around followed by a soundtrack comprising the Best of Queen, what seems like the entire discography of the Rolling Stones and far too much Celine Dione for his liking. It doesn’t bother him so much most of the time- and sometimes, though it pains Sam to admit it, the music is almost pleasing (especially that annoying but strangely catchy song that goes _HEYAAAAYAAAYAAA_ )- but it gets seriously frustrating when he is trying to get some research done, or when it is time for him to go to sleep.

It is difficult enough for Sam to fall asleep on normal days; images of Kevin’s burnt out eyes still haunt his dreams at night, much as he hates to admit it. It is even harder to get enough sleep when Back in Black starts to play every time Sam begins to nod off.

It has gotten to the point that Sam is consuming four cups of coffee a day just to stay upright. His eye bags are so large that even Cas has noticed, causing him to worriedly query if Sam is feeling alright. At this moment, Sam probably looks worse than some of the zombies they’ve fought.

Sam is trying so hard to be the better man in this. But Dean’s antics are really, really starting to get on his nerves.

“Dean, I swear if I hear Sympathy for the Devil one more time,” Sam tells the air, “the next time I see you, I’m going to wring your stupid neck.”

The radio starts to play in response.

“ _Fuck you_ ,” come the sweet British tones of Lily Allen, “ _Fuck you very, very much_.”

Sam grimaces and tries to concentrate on his research.

 _I will not kill my brother_ , he tells himself firmly. _I am a mature, responsible adult. And I will not retaliate or react to his childish antics, because I am better than this. If I respond, he will only get worse._

He takes a deep calming breath.

Then, Sam takes a sip from his coffee, and immediately spits it out, his tongue and throat on fire. Coffee spreads all over Sam’s notes and the priceless Men of Letters documentary records on the table.

“AAARGHHH,” he howls, eyes watering in pain. It feels like someone has lit a fuse in his mouth. “WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU PUT IN MY COFFEE, DEAN?”

Coughing violently, he runs to the kitchen to find himself a glass of water, his mouth burning all the way.

 

* * *

 

After having his coffee spiked with what Cas bemusedly identifies as an extract of Californian Reaper peppers, Sam learns his lesson. He makes Cas taste all his food and drink before he consumes it. It is troublesome, but at least it staves off any future throat-burning incidents.

The music also stops, but Sam does not believe for a moment that Dean has given up. He knows his brother, and Dean is more stubborn than a rock. He would never admit defeat so easily.

Sam waits for the next shoe to drop. But the prank never comes, and Sam thinks that the suspense might actually be worse than the actual pranks themselves. Apparently, Dean has learned the value of psychological warfare.

It is almost a relief when Sam wakes up one day to find Dean standing over his bed. In his hand is a camera phone, and as Sam blinks at him blearily, the tiny camera flashes, causing Sam to raise his hand to shield his eyes from the sudden flare of light.

Sam hastily wipes the drool off his face, and glares at Dean.

“What the fuck, Dean?” he says grumpily.

Dean only smirks in response and he turns the phone around to show Sam the photo: Sam, mouth open and drool running down his face, his hair braided with little pink ribbons and PRINCESS scrawled all over his forehead in hot pink lipstick.

“You look absolutely fabulous, Samantha,” Dean informs him seriously. He tilts the phone back towards himself and looks at the picture admiringly. “I should send this to National Geographic. The Moose in its natural habitat. What a majestic creature.”

He pretends to sigh breathily and Sam bursts out of his bed, murder on his mind, fully intending to teach his idiot brother the lesson of his life. Cackling, Dean snaps his fingers and disappears before Sam can wrap his fingers around his stupid neck.

 

* * *

 

Despite all that, Sam’s resolution not to respond to (or murder) Dean holds. After scrubbing off the makeup and ripping the ribbons from his hair, Sam decides to get some work done. Dean may be behaving like an idiot, but the world still goes on, and Sam is still a hunter, even if Dean isn’t anymore. Perhaps doing some work will take his mind off Dean and his insistence on behaving like an overgrown demonic man-child.

It is a sad day, Sam thinks to himself, when the actual antichrist is better behaved than your thirty five year-old big brother.

Sam boots up his laptop, intending to hit up the news websites and find some potential cases. He eats his breakfast, drinks his coffee and actually gets some work done for the first time in a very long while. It is immensely satisfying. Stretching, he gets up to fetch himself some more coffee.

When he returns, he doesn’t notice anything wrong at first. Sipping his coffee, he flips open his laptop. He clicks on the desktop button and nearly drops the cup in shock.

His usual wallpaper is gone. In its place is an incredibly high definition picture of a guy’s mouth wrapped around another man’s dick. Face coloring, Sam slams the laptop cover down so fast it comes dangerously close to cracking.

He breathes in and out slowly. _I will not react_ , he tells himself slowly. _I will behave as though nothing has happened at all._

He opens the laptop again, and calmly opens up the web browser. His homepage is gone. Instead, there is a picture of a cat. **I CAN HAS CHEEZBURGER?** it says.

Sam fights down his rising temper and refreshes the page. Maybe he hits the F5 button with rather more force than is strictly necessary, but who can blame him, really?

The next page that comes up also has a cat. **CEILING CAT IS WATCHING YOU MASTURBATE** reads the caption.

Sam grits his teeth.

“Cat macros, Dean? _Really_?”

He types in the address for CNN and waits with bated breath as the webpage loads. Sam frowns as a black screen with an embedded video appears instead. The video starts playing without Sam even clicking on it. Breathy moans issue from the laptop speakers and Sam watches in horrified fascination as what he begins to recognize as a scene from The Pizza Man plays on his computer.

It is at this most opportune moment that Castiel decides to take the time to drop by.

“Good morning, Sam,” he says pleasantly, “What are you doing today?”

He pauses and his brows furrow as he peers at the laptop screen from behind Sam’s shoulder.

Face burning, Sam slams the computer screen shut with great force for the second time today. He might have to get a new laptop soon.

“Just checking up on some leads,” he says smoothly and is proud of how steady his voice is.

“Okay,” Cas says slowly. “I’ll just- leave you to it, then.”

He vamooses with a speed that tells Sam he probably saw everything on Sam’s laptop screen. And recognized it.

Sam groans. Gingerly, he opens up the dreaded laptop again.

On the screen, a man screams. “Give it to me,” he yells as his partner pounds into him from behind. “Harder! Harder!”

 _Oh god_ , Sam thinks to himself as he stares at the gay porn, horrified. Dean couldn’t even pick the tasteful kind of gay porn. He just had to go and pick the most terrible, badly done kind of gay porn.

Sam starts stabbing at the F5 key with a vengeance.

After the twelfth porn video and the thirtieth stupid animal picture, Sam’s considerable patience finally runs out.

Dean is sitting casually at the kitchen table when Sam finds him, a bottle of beer in hand. He smirks up at Sam, almost as if he were expecting him. “Heya, Sammy,” he says, “Whatcha up to this fine Tuesday morning?”

Sam empties the bottle of holy water straight onto his face.

Hissing in pain, Dean cries, “What the fuck was that for?”

His hair clings to his face, and he looks like a drowned cat. Steam is still rising off from his flesh where the holy water hit. Sam cannot help but feel a twinge of petty vindication.

He plonks his laptop down on the table in front of Dean and gives Dean his most epic bitchface. “My computer. Fix it now.”

On the laptop screen, two men are giving each other hand jobs, complete with a soundtrack of extremely enthusiastic noises.

Dean leans back, hands crossed behind his head and smiles slowly. “No.”

Sam takes out the salt shaker he borrowed from the kitchen and hurls a faceful of salt at him. Dean flinches away, yelping as the salt burns his skin.

“There’s more where that came from,” Sam says threateningly, holding out the salt shaker like a dire warning.

Glaring murderously, Dean snaps his fingers. The gay porn video that was playing on Sam’s laptop pauses and disappears in a crackle of static.

“Happy now?” he says mutinously.

Sam gives him his most deadpan stare. “Utterly thrilled.”

Dean sniffs affectedly. “You’re no fun at all,” he declares. “Even Cas is less of a drag than you. And I used to think angels were the universe’s biggest stuffed shirts.”

He gets up from the chair.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Sam asks.

Dean gives him a contemptuous look. “I’m going to find Cas. Maybe he’ll be more fun than you.”

Sam sighs. He gets the feeling that this whole Dean situation is slowly but surely spinning out of control.


	3. The Last Straw

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Great Demonic Prank War continues.
> 
> As Sam and Cas are about to learn, Dean's deviousness is not to be underestimated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am a great fan of Terry Pratchett and have lovingly borrowed a phrase from one of his books to describe Cas. Those who have read Sir Pratchett's wonderful book 'Snuff' may recognize this piece of descriptive mastery having been used by Sam Vimes to describe a particularly sad goblin. It is every bit as applicable to Cas here.

Sam leaves the Bunker on a hunt because no matter what Dean seems to think, the world does not revolve around him, and Sam is not going to stop helping people just because his older brother insists on behaving like an immature prick. He leaves Castiel in charge, with a stern warning to look after Dean properly this time and not let Dean wheedle his way into getting everything he wants. Cas nods obediently and makes a solemn promise to watch over Dean like he watched over God’s Children during the Exodus. Sam is sure Castiel meant that to be comforting, but unfortunately, it has the exact opposite effect.

Nevertheless, Sam leaves and goes on the hunt. He saves a bus full of schoolchildren from a ghost that had for some reason decided it was a good idea to reenact the Magic School Bus, only with an educational trip to the bottom of the river. After a night of dealing with harassed parents and half-drowned schoolchildren, Sam is utterly exhausted.

He falls into his dingy motel bed, and though the mattress springs dig into his back like thousands of tiny little pokers, it still feels like absolute bliss.

 _It’s so nice to be able to sleep without Dean around_ , he thinks to himself. For once in a very long while, he can relax and let his guard down. No Dean, no pranks, no stupid, annoying demons with the maturity of five year olds. Sam sighs happily and drifts off to sleep.

 

* * *

 

He wakes up the next morning feeling surprisingly refreshed. Stretching luxuriously, he rolls over, pushing the hand on his chest away as he yawns deeply- _Wait a minute_. Sam looks down at the hand, and then his gaze follows it over to the rest of the body connected to the hand. His mouth doesn’t drop open, but it is a close thing.

A naked woman is lying on his bed. An _extremely well-endowed_ naked woman, Sam notes, his cheeks flushing.

“Hey handsome,” the blonde says, as she notices Sam waking up. “Wanna go another round? Last night was just…” she smiles seductively and licks her lips, “… incredible.”

Sam stares in shock. _What the actual fuck?_ He distinctly remembers having a decidedly unsexy night before toppling into the bed, dead tired, and almost instantaneously falling asleep.

_What the hell is happening?_

Sam’s mouth moves and some vaguely confused noises come out. “Wha- what?” is the best his sleep-addled brain manages to produce.

The blonde smiles at him seductively. Her eyes are the most intense, vibrant shade of green. _Kind of like Dean’s eyes_ , a small part of Sam’s brain says, but that bit of his intellect is hastily being shoved to a corner in favor of Sam’s traitorously interested lizard brain.

“Don’t you remember?” the blonde says disappointedly. She pouts. “You were such a tiger. _Rawr._ ” She winks and mock-growls at him as she raises a hand to claw at the air.

Sam shakes his head in disbelief. This can’t be happening. Perhaps he is still dreaming.

When Sam doesn’t reply, the woman leans in closer. “Guess I’ll have to remind you then,” she tells him, smiling slyly. She reaches out to stroke his chest and Sam begins to panic.

“I’m sorry, I really don’t remember-“ he gabbles as he tries to scramble away, pushing the woman’s hand away. “There must be some kind of mistake…”

“Shhhh,” the blonde tells him, placing a finger on his lips to silence him, before trailing down to cup his face in her hand. Sam freezes. He stares in fascinated horror as she leans in closer, a playful smile on her lips. Their faces are mere inches away. This close, he can see every freckle on her pale skin and the scent of her cheap perfume, so thick and heavy it verges on nauseating, is almost overpowering.

He stares into the blonde’s eyes, feeling like a deer caught in the headlights. He can nearly taste the warmth from her lips. His heart pounds and it’s like a haze has descended over his thoughts. Sam watches helplessly as her mouth descends towards his, but just as their lips are about to touch, the blonde’s eyes flash black.

“Hello, Sammy,” she says, and the evil smirk on her face is all Dean.

Screaming, Sam scrambles away so fast he falls off the bed in a tangle of limbs and bed sheets.

Meanwhile, Dean cackles from his position on the bed. “You should have seen the look on your face!” he crows. “Priceless!”

“This isn’t funny, you fucker!” Sam yells as he scrambles to untangle himself and struggle into a sitting position, his heart still pounding. “Get the hell out of her, Dean!”

On the bed, Dean continues crowing with ugly laughter.

“Don’t make me exorcise you!” Sam threatens.

“Won’t work and you know it,” Dean says smugly. He gets off the bed and wanders over the mirror, admiring his new body in the reflection. “Hey, check out this rack, Sammy,” he says.

Sam glares at him in disgust.

“What?” says Dean. Then, smirking coyly, he adds, “I saw you _looking_.” He giggles, like legitimately giggles, and Sam has to resist the urge to hit him.

“Y’know, Sammy,” he says conversationally, “I kinda like this new body. Maybe I’ll keep it.” Dean turns around to check out his bum in the mirror. He whistles appreciatively at his reflection and winks at Sam.

“You like the booty?” He leers, slapping his buttocks for emphasis.

Sam glowers. “Get out, Dean,” he says warningly.

Dean just ignores him and muses airily, “Maybe Cas will like the booty. Maybe I should pay him a visit instead. Ask him about my booty.” Smirking saucily, he waggles his eyebrows suggestively at Sam. The expression looks absolutely ridiculous on the blonde’s face.

Sam is not amused at all.

“You possessed an innocent woman just to play a prank on me,” Sam snarls, “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Relax, lover boy,” Dean says airily, “I haven’t done anything to the meatsuit, alright? I’ll put her right back where she belongs, none the worse for wear. She won’t remember a thing.”

Sam grits his teeth and tries to contain the anger that he feels is about to explode out of him. “You complete bastard. Do you have no regard for other people’s lives? Playing with actual human beings like this-- if you weren’t my brother, I’d put you down like an animal right now!”

“Woah. Chill the fuck out, Samantha,” Dean snaps, “I didn’t hurt anyone and you know it.”

“Get out, Dean,” Sam says, “I won’t ask again.”

“Fine, _mum_ ,” Dean bites out. The woman’s mouth shoots open and a great cloud of black smoke billows out. It streaks out of the window and is out of sight in seconds. The woman’s body starts to fall limply to the ground, but Sam rushes forward to catch her.

Coughing, the woman stutters back to consciousness. She opens her eyes and looks around the unfamiliar surroundings of the motel room fearfully, before her eyes alight on Sam. Sam hurriedly hands her his jacket to cover herself. “Don’t be afraid,” he says softly, trying to hunch himself down to be as non-threatening as possible. “You’re safe now.”

Shaking, the blonde takes the jacket from him and shrugs it on. Thankfully, it is large enough to cover most of her. She tries to speak but all she manages is a weak, “Where- what?” before bursting into tears in Sam’s arms.

Sam looks down helplessly as the half-naked woman clings to him, sobbing in confusion. “There- there… was a thing with black eyes-” she wails, “it- it came into me-“

“Shhh, shh,” Sam says comfortingly, “It’s alright. You’re fine now.”

When he looks up again, Dean is lounging on the bed, back in his own body. Sam glares at Dean over the top of the woman’s head, as he pats her awkwardly on the back. Dean just smirks back cheekily and blows him an air kiss before disappearing again. _The bastard._

It seems that the only thing Sam’s does much of these days is clean up Dean’s messes.

 

* * *

 

When Sam returns to the Bunker, the first thing he does is take a fire extinguisher and douse the ring of holy fire around Cas.

Cas looks at him shamefacedly. His shoulders are hunched miserably. He looks so penitent that Sam doesn’t have the heart to feel angry at him.

“I’m sorry, Sam,” he says morosely. “I failed you again.”

He looks like a sigh on legs, the very picture of abject dejection. Sam feels kinda bad just looking at him.

“It’s not your fault, Cas,” he tells Cas. “Dean tricked you.”

“I should have been more vigilant,” Cas says, and he sighs deeply. “Dean is more devious than I gave him credit for.”

“Yeah, he has his moments of criminal brilliance,” Sam says tiredly. “You okay, Cas?”

Cas nods, and Sam thinks, with a sudden rush of camaraderie, of how glad he is to have Cas here with him. Here at least is one other person who understands Sam’s plight. Here is someone who also cares about Dean, despite what he’s become, and who is willing to go through the trouble of trying to fix him instead of putting him down like the monster he has become.

“Dean’s getting out of control,” he confesses. “I don’t know what to do with him.”

Castiel cocks his head to one side contemplatively.

“Have you ever considered that perhaps Dean is doing these things because he wants your attention?” he suggests.

Sam stares at him. “He wants attention? He has my attention! That’s pretty much all I’ve been doing these few months. Chasing after him, cleaning up his messes, making sure he doesn’t run off on some crazy demon murder spree again. I think I can safely say that he has my _full_ attention.”

Cas looks at him in concern and says gently, “Perhaps Dean wants a different sort of attention. I don’t pretend to understand human emotions well… but if I might venture a guess? I think Dean misses you, Sam. The way you two used to be. Close, trusting… brotherly. Maybe this is his way of showing it.”

Sam gives him a dubious look.

Cas continues, “Much like many human children, he is acting out… due to some sense of fear or insecurity. Perhaps he seeks affirmation that you still care. And that is why he tests you so.”

“I highly doubt that, Dr Phil,” Sam says tiredly. He sighs and runs a hand through his hair.

“Anyway, this has to stop. I just don’t know how to make him _behave_. He’s like a- _child_ ,” Sam spits the word in disgust. “And they say that toddlers are demons. I think it’s the other way round.”

Sam sighs deeply and shakes his head in despair, muttering under his breath, “If only Dad could see us now…”

 

* * *

 

Dean doesn’t act out for the next few days, but Sam continues to glare daggers at him every time he sees Dean. Dean’s only response is to smirk suggestively at him and call him ‘tiger’. It is infuriatingly annoying and also mortally embarrassing.

Sam is never going to live that down.

Of course, it is too much to hope for to expect Dean to stay quiescent for long, satisfied with his latest victory. Never one to rest on his laurels, it isn’t even a week before Dean pulls another stunt, and this time, it is the last straw that breaks Sam’s already overburdened back.

After a long day of research in the archives, Sam wanders into the kitchen, thinking of grabbing a drink. He opens the fridge, but pauses in the act of taking a beer out as he hears the sounds of high-pitched shrieking and laughter in the distance.

Shutting the fridge door, Sam turns and follows the noises towards the war room. The sight that greets him nearly sends him reeling backwards in shock.

The room is filled with women in various states of undress. Some are lounging on the war room table, others are draped languorously over the chairs. There are women slumped on the floor or against the walls, glazed looks in their eyes. Other than the fact that they are all quite thoroughly stoned, the one thing they all have in common is that they are very obviously prostitutes.

Amongst all the chaos and discarded clothes, Dean sits like a king on his throne from his position atop the middle of the war room’s long table, surrounded by a ring of naked women.

When he catches sight of Sam standing in the doorway, frozen in shock, he raises a hand in greeting. “Heya Sammy,” he says casually, as if he were not currently surrounded by a roomful of drugged-up nude hookers.

“Hey girls!” Dean calls out to the prostitutes. “This is my brother, Sam. Say hello!” The girls giggle and wave at him. "Hi Sam!" they chorus dutifully.

Sam stares at Dean in horror, too stunned to be angry yet. He says slowly, “You brought hookers back to the bunker. Our secret headquarters. The _secret_ Men of Letters headquarters that have remained a closely guarded _secret_ since 1935.”

Dean gives him a bored look. “Yeah, so?”

Sam glares at him, his temper rising. “Dean, does the word ‘ _secret_ ’ mean anything to you?”

Dean waves a hand at him airily. “Relax, princess. I’ll wipe their memories later. Your precious mancave is safe.”

Sam gapes at him in disbelief. “You selfish, immature… jerk! I can’t believe you could be so _irresponsible_.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “You jealous, Sam? It’s okay, I can share- that’s what brothers do, isn’t it?”

Sam has to resist the urge to storm across the room and drag Dean off the table right to have a throw down right there and then. It takes a great effort of will to keep his voice steady and below the level of a shout.

“Get them out. Now,” he tells Dean through gritted teeth.

Dean glares. “No,” he says, arms crossed.

Sam narrows his eyes. It is obviously time for him to take matters into his own hands.

“Party’s over, people,” he declares to the women, clapping loudly to get their attention. The prostitutes turn to look at him, some of them with interest. “Get up,” Sam says, annoyed. “All of you.”

Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees a hooker looking at one of the Men of Letters artifacts curiously, her eyes unfocused from intoxication. Giggling dazedly, she reaches out to touch it. “Don’t touch that!” he yells and snatches it away from her. What the hell was Dean thinking? Bringing a bunch of hookers high on god knows what into a room full of dangerous magical artifacts?

“Cas!” Sam yells. “Get your ass here now!”

Dean grins at him. “You wanna ask Cas to join us?” He turns to the women. “Who’s up for an orgy? Yeah? I’ll throw in an extra hundred for whoever blows the guy in the trench coat!”

The girls cheer.

Sam glares at him. “Cas!” he yells again.

There is a flutter of wings and Cas suddenly appears in the middle of the room. Sam thanks god for the fact that the women are too stoned to do much other than stare at Cas, as if a man appearing from thin air was a perfectly ordinary occurrence.

“Woahhh,” one of them says slowly. “Did that dude just like- appear out of nowhere? I’m... so... high...” She sighs happily.

Cas looks around in bewilderment, his expression falling as he takes in the scene.

“Why does this room smell like a brothel?” he says slowly. “Who are these women? Why are they here?”

“They’re prostitutes,” Sam informs him tiredly. “Dean hired them and brought them back here.”

Cas frowns at Dean. His voice is heavy with disappointment, “Dean. Did you really hire all these women and bring them back to the bunker to have carnal relations with them?”

Dean shrugs. He does not meet Castiel’s gaze.

Meanwhile, one of the more enterprising hookers has clued in to the fact that Castiel is the ‘guy in the trenchcoat’ mentioned by Dean. “Hey there, big boy,” she tells him, smiling, as she reaches up to undo Castiel’s belt buckle.

Castiel stares at her in shock and gently pushes her hand away.

“I have no interest in engaging in sexual activity with you,” he tells her solemnly, “I am an Angel of the Lord.”

The prostitute stares at him uncomprehendingly.

Sam sighs. “Cas, do me a favor and knock them all out, will you? Wipe their memories at the same time.”

Cas holds up his hand, and there is a pulse of white light before the women all slump to the floor suddenly, unconscious. He turns to Dean.

“You should not have done that,” he tells Dean reprovingly. “These women are vulnerable and it was wrong of you to exploit them through offers of drugs and money.”

Dean frowns at him unhappily. “Can’t a man have some fun once in a while?” he mutters sullenly. “You two fuddy duddies need to lighten up and get off my case.”

Sam wants to throw something at him. As it is, he will never be able to look at the war room table again without imagining what his brother and a football team’s worth of prostitutes were doing upon it. His urge to murder Dean rises to dangerous levels.

“Stop being such a child!" he snaps, "Have you taken leave of all your senses, Dean?”

Dean rolls his eyes.

“That stick up your ass is so far in you’re gonna need surgery to remove it,” he retorts snidely. “Maybe you need to get laid too. Oh _wait_ — every time you sleep with a woman, they _die_. The touch of your dick is like the kiss of death. Sucks to be you.”

With that parting shot, he snaps his fingers and disappears.

After a period of uncomfortable silence, Sam and Cas exchange a look.

“We need to do something about this,” Sam says.


	4. The Intervention

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fed up with Dean’s behavior, Sam stages an intervention. Dean is not amused.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter isn’t exactly very funny, and I apologize for that. The plot has started to kick in, and with it comes some unavoidable angst. But do not fear, we will return our regular scheduled programming of lighthearted demon!Dean hijinks in the next chapter.

It is the dead of night. Everywhere in the bunker, there is nothing but darkness and complete, utter silence.

In the inky black darkness, a lone shadow detaches itself from the greater whole. Something about the shadow’s movements is almost furtive, as if it were anxious about being caught. It moves along the hallways, pausing only for a moment before ducking out into the war room. It is almost at the entrance to the garage when a voice rings out in the darkness, breaking the silence.

 

\---

 

“Going somewhere?” Sam says.

Dean pauses guiltily, his hand still outstretched towards the door leading to the garage. He turns around slowly.

At Sam’s nod, Castiel snaps his fingers and the overhead lamps flicker to life, flooding the Bunker with sudden light and illuminating the three chairs laid out in a semi-circle in the middle of the room. Two of the chairs are occupied by Sam and Cas, but there is one last empty one in the middle, which Sam motions to.

“Sit down, Dean,” he says and gives Dean a pleasant smile.

Dean eyes the chair warily and makes no move towards it. “What do you want?” he asks suspiciously.

Sam nods at Castiel, who moves to flank Dean. Dean glares at the approaching angel, but Castiel merely stares impassively back at him. He moves to take hold of Dean’s shoulder to shepherd him back to the chairs but Dean takes a hasty step backwards, holding up a hand to stop Castiel from pressing into his personal space. “I can walk by myself, thank you!” he snaps.

Grumbling under his breath, he tromps over to the chairs, and instead of sitting down on the unoccupied one that had obviously been meant for him, he slumps spitefully down onto Castiel’s seat. Slouching, he looks around at Cas and Sam accusingly.

“What’s this? An intervention? Are we all gonna go down the line and talk about our feelings now? You gonna tell me to-” his lips curl into a disdainful sneer and he forms his fingers into air-quotes, “- ‘ _help us help you’_?”

Sam stares at him coolly, but does not say a word.

Dean throws him an annoyed glance. “Yeah. Screw you, Dr Drew. I’ll be off now.”

He stands and tries to walk into the garage, but the moment he takes three steps away from the chairs, he stops, as if he has run into an invisible barrier. Startled, Dean tries to walk forward again, but is stymied once more. Sam watches as realization slowly dawns on his face- his look of bafflement transforming rapidly into impotent fury as he looks up and takes in the sight of the freshly painted devil’s trap on the ceiling, red paint still not completely dry. Lips curling, he turns back, glaring daggers.

“You _bastards_ ,” he says in a voice filled with incredible loathing.

Sam just smiles serenely back at him and pats the empty seat beside him. “Take a seat, Dean,” he says pleasantly.

Dean angrily sits down. He glares at Sam, his lips pressed into a thin line. The sullen, resentful look on his face would give even the broodiest and most angst-ridden of teenagers a run for their money.

“Thank you, Dean,” Sam tells him. “Now, I’d like to talk to you about your behavior over the past few weeks. It has been- to put it bluntly… fucking appalling.”

Dean rolls his eyes.

“Go on then,” he sneers, “Don’t be shy. Lay it all on me. Tell me again how much I’ve screwed up and how I should stay in here like a quiet, obedient little prisoner. Cos I haven’t heard enough of it yet.”

“Sarcasm solves nothing, Dean,” Cas volunteers helpfully. Dean throws him an annoyed glare, and Cas adds pleasantly, “You should be more truthful about your feelings.” Dean’s glare ratchets up from ‘ _level 1: mildly annoyed, but ultimately, really kind of indifferent’_ \- which seems to be his default setting of irritation when it comes to Cas- right up to what Sam recognizes as _‘level 5: I’m going to stab you, bitch_ ’.

Dean Winchester and feelings have never mixed well.

“What’s this? Good cop?” Dean growls, pointing first at Cas, then at Sam, “Bad cop?”

“You’ve been acting like a spoilt child,” Sam tells him. “You tormented me for weeks, possessed an innocent woman for kicks, and turned the Men of Letters headquarters into your personal whorehouse. Tell me, Dean, what do you have to say for yourself?”

“I’m sorry, Sam,” Dean says sweetly. He smiles brightly at Sam and his eyes flash with malicious joy. “I’m sorry that your chronic inability to get laid has left you a fucking killjoy with the sense of humor of a rock and the fun quotient of a funeral wake.”

Sam ignores him and continues, “Please, Dean, help us understand why you feel the need to embark on this impulsive, self-destructive course of behavior. I’ve seen five years old with more maturity and self-awareness than you.”

Dean flashes him a furious glare. “Fuck you, you self-righteous prick. I don’t have to explain myself to you.”

Cas shakes his head disapprovingly at Dean. “Calling your brother names will not help anything, Dean. You should engage in this ‘intervention’ process meaningfully. We only want to help you.”

Dean snorts. “You know what would help me?” he sneers, “Not being treated like a fucking prisoner, that’s what.”

Castiel looks at him sadly and says, voice heavy with disappointment, “I had hoped we could have a more meaningful conversation than this, Dean.”

“Yeah, well. Keep on hoping, feathers.” Dean sneers. “I’m a _demon_. I do what I want.” He folds his arms and leans back against the chair, staring sullenly at the air. “Now, are we done yet? Or are we just gonna sit here all night?”

Sam sighs. He was afraid this would happen. It seems Dean is determined not to cooperate. Well, it’s not like he didn’t expect it.

“So it’s come to this,” Sam says tiredly. “I have obviously been too lenient with you, Dean. I have tried my best to give you the benefit of the doubt. I have tried so hard to trust you, even after you’ve repeatedly shown yourself to be unworthy of it. I have indulged all your silly pranks and your childish behavior. For weeks, I have done nothing to retaliate even though I really should have. Cas and I have always given you as much freedom as we can, but you just abuse our trust. I don’t know why you insist on acting this way, but it has to stop. Now.”

Dean glares back at him, his chin lifted defiantly. “Oh? What you gonna do about it? Shoot me with a devil's-trapped bullet again? Chain me up and put me in Crowley’s old chair?”

Sam looks at him, and says dryly, “Oh, I’m _very_ tempted, trust me.”

“Yeah, you would like that, wouldn’t you?” Dean snarls, “Shut me away in some small dark corner of the archives. Out of sight, out of mind. Just another forgotten Men of Letters artifact.” Dean’s eyes are wild, his face twisted into a mask of ugly emotion; he is practically spitting. “Your troublesome older brother Dean, stupid enough to get himself turned into a demon. What an _idiot_. What a _shame_ to the family name. If only he had never come back to life. Couldn’t even die properly, the stupid fuck-up.”

Out of the corner of his eyes, Sam sees Castiel’s eyes widen. He looks shaken, and his large blue eyes are mournful as he stares at Dean. But Sam- Sam is just furious.

Dean’s words are obviously chosen to hurt, to strike at Sam’s most vulnerable points. Dean has always been Sam’s weak spot, and the bastard obviously knows it. But Dean’s emotional blackmail has failed. Sam does not feel any guilt. He just feels angry.

So Dean wants to throw himself a little pity party? Well, Sam has done nothing since Dean’s death except chase after him, trying everything just to get his older brother back. He and Cas have done so much just for Dean. How _dare_ Dean accuse him of not caring? All Sam has done since Dean’s death has been for Dean’s sake, not that the ungrateful bastard appreciates it.

“Fuck you, Dean,” Sam snaps, “All I’ve been trying to do is _help_ you, you bloody ingrate.”

Dean gives him a scathing glare. “You sure have a funny way of helping. You wanna help? Leave me the fuck alone.” He sneers in disdain, enunciating each word as he spits them out. “I don’t need any of your ‘ _help_ ’.” His voice is pure venom.

Sam clenches his fists so tight his nails bite deep into the flesh of his palm. “You are really forcing my hand, Dean,” he grits out. “Can’t you just listen to me, for once? Stop your childish behavior and start behaving like the sensible, mature adult you’re supposed to be.”

He takes a deep breath. “I don’t need you to help me on hunts; I don’t _care_ if you treat me like shit. I don’t even care if you hate me.” Dean stares at him, his face blank but his eyes dark with some indescribable emotion. Sam continues, frustration making his voice rise, “I just need you to stop treating innocent people like your toys. You may not give a shit about human life anymore, but at least have the decency to pretend to care.”

Sam stops, his breaths coming fast and sharp. He feels as tired as if he had just run a full marathon. He resists the urge to scrub at his eyes and bow his head in exhaustion. All his frustration and anger weighs down on him, an almost tangible burden on his shoulders. But Sam forces himself to continue. He stares Dean straight in the eyes, and his voice is firm as he declares, “Consider this your final warning, Dean.”

Dean’s lips curl in a sneer. “Ooh, an ultimatum. I’m so _scared_.”

Cas throws him a disapproving glare. “Be serious, Dean. Your flippancy is unbecoming and unhelpful.”

Dean ignores him. “Go ahead and leave me here to rot,” he declares. “I don’t care. I have all the time in the world.” He stares at Sam defiantly, chin raised challengingly. “This is what I’m like now, and you can either accept it or you can wait here until your dying day; I’m not going to change. So what’s it gonna be, Sammy?”

Sam looks into Dean’s eyes and sees not a single shred of remorse. _Damn it, Dean_ , he thinks. Words are obviously not going to change Dean’s mind. Dean has always been bull-headed, and it seems that this aspect of his personality, at least, has not changed. Sam sighs. It appears that some action must be taken.

“I don’t want to do this, Dean, but you leave me no choice. Until you learn to behave yourself, you obviously can’t be left to your own devices. I would leave you in this devil’s trap till you learnt your lesson, but then you’d still be here when the world finally ends. So we’ll try this another way. Cas is going to be staying with you from now on to make sure you don’t get into any trouble. Think of him as your new… sober companion.”

Cas turns to stare at Sam in shock. “You did not discuss this with me beforehand, Sam,” he says slowly, a note of accusation in his voice.

“Cas,” Sam says tiredly, “Look. You’re the only one here equipped to handle Dean. You’re an angel. You don’t need to eat. You don’t need to sleep. You have enough power to stop whatever tricks he tries. So this is our only option now. Unless you want to stick him in a devil’s trap for the rest of his life, which is you know- till the end of time, since he’s essentially immortal now.”

Cas looks at him, conflicted. He is obviously not very thrilled with the idea.

Dean glares at both of them. “Hey, stop talking about me as if I’m not here,” he snaps. “Don’t _I_ get a say in all this?”

Sam ignores him and motions for Cas to follow him. They walk away from the semicircle of chairs, leaving Dean standing at the edge of the devil’s trap, glowering unhappily at them from across the room.

Sam turns to Cas. “Dean needs a good role model, Cas. I know you’ll be a good influence on him. Leaving him by himself isn’t going to work. We’ve seen what’s happened so far when we left him to his own devices. He obviously needs more supervision and guidance.”

Privately, Sam thinks to himself that Cas may not exactly be the model of good decision-making or healthy coping mechanisms- this is after all the same guy who thought that taking in Purgatory souls to become the new God would be a good idea- but Cas is at least doing far better than Dean is at the moment.

Cas still does not look entirely convinced. He gives Sam a doubtful look. “I’m not sure about this, Sam. I don’t think my constant presence would be helpful to Dean…” he says slowly, eyes flickering to Dean where he stands at the edge of the circle, looking at them with ill-concealed impatience.

Sam looks at him perplexed. What on earth is Cas going on about? Why would Dean not want Cas around? They’ve always been close, and heck, isn’t this the same guy who once told Sam that he had a 'more profound bond’ with Dean?

(Not that Sam was in any way hurt by that comment. Nope, not at all. Not even a little. Really.)

Even now, as a demon, Dean still seems to enjoy Castiel’s company, which is much more than can be said for Sam, and damn if that doesn’t sting a little, having your brother prefer the company of the creature that’s supposed to one of his kind’s mortal enemies over his own flesh and blood brother.

But Cas does not elaborate further and so Sam dismisses it from his mind. Instead, he pulls out his trump card.

“You’re his best friend, Cas,” Sam tells the angel. “Dean listens to you. He trusts you.”

Castiel looks at him dubiously and opens his mouth to protest, but Sam cuts him off. “I would do it, but I can’t get through to Dean. But I know you can.” He looks into Castiel’s eyes, and says softly, “Please, Cas... can you do this for Dean?”

And maybe it’s a low blow, and it also makes Sam feel like a bit of a cad, but he is getting rather desperate at this point. He doesn’t know what he will do if Cas says no. Keeping Dean confined in a devil’s trap for the rest of his life is not exactly a very practical option.

Cas looks extremely uncomfortable, but eventually he nods in agreement. “I guess I should be able to handle that,” he says reluctantly.

Sam breathes a sigh of relief. “Great,” he says, and smiles warmly at Cas, giving the angel a grateful pat on the back. “Thanks, Cas. You’re a real pal.”

Cas smiles back hesitantly. Sam gives him what he hopes is a reassuring smile and says, “Just stay with Dean at all times and make sure he doesn’t run off and get up to trouble again. Sounds good?”

Cas nods slowly.

That settled, Sam leads the way back to where Dean is lounging on the chairs, having commandeered all three to form a long bench for him to lie on. He looks up as they approach. “Cas, please tell me you’ve said no to Sam’s latest insanity.”

Cas does not meet his gaze. Dean’s frown deepens. “Cas?” he says again, looking askance at the angel.

Sam cuts in. “Cas has agreed to be your new babysitter, since you’re obviously as capable of keeping yourself out of trouble as a toddler. Congratulations Dean, you have your own guardian angel now. And it isn’t even Christmas yet.”

Dean’s gaze snaps away from Castiel to fall upon Sam. “ _Fuck you_ ,” he tells Sam with great venom.

He turns back to Cas, and says pleadingly, “I thought you had more sense than this, Cas. C’mon, Cas. This is stupid.”

“I’m sorry, Dean, but Sam and I both think that this is the best option,” Cas tells him solemnly.

Dean gives him a disgusted look before turning to Sam.

Scowling, he says, “I don’t need the angel as my fucking _nanny_. I mean… This guy? Seriously?” Dean snorts, his voice full of scorn, “He can barely look after himself, for god’s sake.” He throws Cas a contemptuous glance.

In response, Cas merely turns his steely gaze on Dean. “I’ve come a long way from being a ‘baby in a trench coat’ as you so fetchingly put it once, Dean,” he says, and there is a startling intensity to his voice, “In all our time together, I’ve learned many things, and one of those things is that you never give up on the people you care about. I’ve learned that everyone can be saved, but first, they have to _want_ to be saved.”

“Do you want to be saved, Dean Winchester?” Cas asks as he looks at Dean, his gaze unwavering.

Dean stares woodenly back at Castiel, and Sam finds himself holding his breath waiting for Dean’s answer.

But Dean doesn’t speak. He just gazes back at Castiel, some unreadable emotion on his face.

The silence stretches uncomfortably, the air heavy with things unspoken, and Sam feels like an intruder, watching something intensely private unfold in between Cas and Dean. He doesn’t dare make a move, afraid to break whatever it is that he senses stretching between the two other men.

But then Cas breaks the tableau. He snaps his fingers and the paint on the ceiling disappears. Dean looks at him in surprise.

“Come, Dean,” Castiel says, smiling, and he holds out his hand like a peace offering. “I believe you were telling me just yesterday that you wanted me to try watching that ridiculous medical drama you are so fond of. Dr Sexy M.D, I believe? Shall we watch it together?”

Dean stares at him for a moment before responding, and Sam watches the conflict play out on his face as he tries to decide if he should refuse simply for the principle of it, or if he should forgo sticking the middle finger to authority in favor of a TV marathon with Cas. In the end, the Cas option appears to win out because Dean throws Cas a halfhearted glare. “Your _face_ is ridiculous,” he bites out sullenly, but there is no real heat behind his words. He takes Castiel’s outstretched hand and Cas pulls him up to his feet. He allows himself to be shepherded down the hallway by Cas as he launches into a lecture about the merits of his (ridiculously overblown and frankly rather terrible) beloved medical drama.

“Dr Sexy is a masterpiece of television-making,” he tells Cas sternly. “Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

Sam snorts loudly, but Dean is too engrossed in talking to Cas to notice.

Watching them go, Sam dares to allow himself some cautious optimism that his plan might actually turn out alright.

Unfortunately, it turns out his hope is perhaps a little premature.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was rather hard for me to write, probably because the plot edged in and kicked out all the lighthearted comedy in favor of serious business angsty stuff, which I find less enjoyable to write. Anyway, I hope the change in tone isn’t too jarring. Next chapter should see us back in familiar territory again though, with Dean back to his usual trolly self. Yay for demonic hijinks :)


	5. The Demon-Sitter's Club

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even the allure of Dr Sexy MD marathons can only last for so long. Dean gets sent to the naughty corner and Cas shows off his Supernanny skills.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thank you to everyone who's been reading/commenting/giving me little hearts! You guys are awesome and a mighty source of inspiration :)

Sam wakes up the next morning to find Dean and Cas sitting in the library, watching Dr Sexy MD on Dean’s laptop. From the stack of opened DVD cases on the table, it seems that they have gotten through at least 3 seasons already. Apparently, not needing to sleep or eat means that Dean and Cas are powering through 9 seasons worth of shitty medical (melo)drama like a steam train.

Cas is staring at the computer screen, completely absorbed. His back is ramrod straight, and his eyes are glued to the screen, drinking in every little detail, as if all the answers to life, love and the universe were contained in a trashy TV show about oversexed medical practitioners in cowboy boots.

Sam rolls his eyes and wonders if he should be surprised that Castiel’s taste in entertainment is just as terrible as Dean’s.

Dean is leaning back in his chair languidly, his hands behind his head. He looks more relaxed than Sam has seen him in ages, not the fake insouciance that he displays so often these days, but something far more natural- far more _genuine_. Curiously, he seems to be spending more time looking at Cas watching the show than actually watching the show itself.

Cas lets out a startled laugh at what is most likely an incredibly corny joke, and the corners of Dean’s lips lift up into a tiny, almost imperceptible smile. However, as soon as Sam’s footsteps sound in the room, he jackrabbits up, turning to glare at Sam like a startled cat.

The scraping of his chair alerts Cas, who reaches out to pause the video before turning to look at Sam too. “Hello, Sam,” he says, smiling. “You should try watching Dr Sexy too. It is… surprisingly compelling.” He pats the chair next to him. “Would you like to join us?”

Behind him, Dean’s mouth twists into a moue of extreme distaste at Castiel’s invitation. He glares grumpily at Cas, who does not notice, and his displeasure is obvious.

Well, it’s not like Sam desperately wants to crash their bad TV slumber party anyway. He has much better things to watch. Like Twilight. Or paint drying.

“Yeahhh, no thanks,” he says, “I’ll pass. You two enjoy yourselves.”

He leaves them both in the library, feeling pretty good about his decision to assign Cas to Dean-watching duty. Who knew Cas and a little bit of trashy TV could work such wonders? Maybe this is what they should have doing all along. The carrot instead of the stick.

If Sam had known that Dr Sexy M.D would work so effectively as a demonic pacifier, he would gladly have thrown all his money at the television studio to get them to churn out more seasons of their shitty show. Alas, there have only ever been so many seasons of Dr Sexy made, and like all good things, they eventually run out.

 

\---

 

A few days after the ill-fated ‘intervention’ and the start of Castiel’s new demon-sitting duties, Sam decides to leave the Bunker to head into town. He has been neglecting his grocery shopping, having been too busy with Dean and his ridiculous antics to be concerned about the dismal state of the Bunker’s kitchen. But when he opens the fridge with the intention of whipping up a quick meal for himself, and finds nothing but a moldy piece of cheese and a slightly rotten carrot staring back at him, he realizes that he has to do something about it. Now that Cas seems to have the Dean situation under control, Sam is finally free to get some groceries done.

Cas had been helping Sam with his grocery shopping over the past few months since they first got Dean back (at which point he had moved into the Bunker full-time). One of the perks of living with an angel is making said angel utilize his divine powers to help Sam get his groceries. It’s not that Sam is lazy or anything, (okay, maybe he is a little) but one of them needs to be around to look after Dean at all times, and Cas is far more efficient at doing grocery runs than Sam, being able to fly to the store, grab all the items on the shopping list, and be back within a matter of minutes.

Granted, it had not always gone so smoothly. There may have been some… _incidents_ at the start.

On his first grocery run, Cas had spent an hour outside before Sam, worried, decided to give him a call. Cas had only picked up after about ten rings, causing Sam no small amount of anguish as he waited in trepidation, imagination running amok with images of Cas dead by the roadside, killed by rogue angels or overpowered by one of his (numerous) enemies.

Then, Cas had picked up the phone, and his ‘Hello, Sam’ had been delivered with rather more bitchiness than Sam was used to from him.

“Um. Is everything alright, Cas?” Sam asked nervously. There was a lot of agonized cursing in the background as well as a loud thudding noise of something heavy striking metal. Sam listened more closely and was able to make out the barest hints of a mechanized female voice repeating something over and over again.

“Cas?” Sam tried again.

“Sam,” Cas said irritably, “This machine keeps telling me that there is an ‘ _unexpected item in the bagging area_ ’ when there is obviously no such thing. It is infuriating.”

Sam closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. Of course, the angel would meet his defeat at the hands of supermarket self-checkout machines. _Surely_ , he thought to himself, _a celestial being that has existed since the beginning of time, possessing all the power of heaven and the wisdom of ages, would be able to complete a single grocery run without incident. But no, that is clearly not the case._

“Try asking one of the store workers for help, Cas,” Sam suggested.

“I am an Angel of the Lord, Sam,” Cas replied haughtily. “I have an innate understanding of the fundamental workings of the universe and a greater intrinsic knowledge of physics than even the best of your human scientists. I am perfectly capable of handling this myself."

After a beat, he added, "Besides, when I was a human, I worked in a convenience store before. I know how to operate a cashier. This machine is largely similar. So I think it is safe to say that I can use it without the need to ask for _help_.” The contemptuous disdain in his voice could have stripped paint from walls.

Sam wanted to sigh, but carefully stopped himself. He did not want to set off the angel who was getting him his food. “Okay,” he said, “But just make sure you remember to get the milk.”

“Damn it,” cursed Cas, who had clearly forgotten to get the milk. He hung up, and returned to the Bunker another hour later, with the milk _and_ a veritable thundercloud of anger hovering over his head. He had dumped the groceries in the kitchen and proceeded to sulk in a corner of the library for the rest of the day, muttering about infernal machines and the appalling state of modern technology, while Dean sniggered unsubtly at him.

Everything could only go upwards from there.

In any case, Castiel’s grocery runs had stopped after Dean started acting up, resulting in Sam’s recent subsistence on instant ramen and rather more junk food than was healthy for a man his age. Sam’s heart has ached so much for a proper salad. But now that Cas has things well in hand, Sam finally has the chance to go out and get some decent food for the first time in weeks. Whistling, Sam goes to the garage and gets into the Impala.

 

\---

 

When Sam returns from his grocery run, he does not expect to come back to the Bunker to find Dean sulking in one corner, sitting on a chair with his arms crossed. Beneath him is a neatly drawn devil’s trap. He is glaring daggers at Castiel.

If hatred had physical force, the twin laser beams of hate from Dean’s eyes would have long reduced Castiel to an angel-shaped splatter on the floor. But Cas gives no indication of noticing Dean’s furious glare. Instead, he seats at the library table, flipping idly through one of the Men of Letters books. He looks up as Sam walks down the stairs, grocery bags in hand.

“Welcome back, Sam,” he says in greeting and flashes Sam a small smile.

Sam throws an enquiring glance at Dean, who glares at him furiously. “What’s with-’ he motions at Dean and the devil’s trap, “all that?”

Cas licks his finger and flips a page, eyes barely leaving the book as he says, “Oh, Dean’s in the naughty corner.”

“The naughty corner,” Sam repeats incredulously.

“Yes,” Castiel says, looking up. “Are you familiar with the term? It was popularized in your country by the hit reality TV series ‘Supernanny’. It’s a show about solving parenting problems and disciplining misbehaving children with the guidance of a childcare expert called-"

“Yes, Cas, I know what Supernanny is, thank you,” Sam says exasperatedly, with a bit more snappishness than is probably warranted in the situation. “What I _don’t_ get is what Dean is doing in that corner.”

“Oh,” says Castiel, and he glances briefly over at Dean, who childishly sticks his tongue out at them, before he returns his attention to his book. “Dean tried to banish me,” he tells Sam offhandedly, as if he was telling Sam about the weather instead of Dean’s latest escape attempt. He flips another page.

“What?” Sam bursts out, and spins around to look at Dean accusingly. Dean grins at him winsomely and winks. “Almost worked too,” he informs Sam smugly, “Too bad Cas here noticed just before I could activate the banishing sigil.”

Sam had thought that Dean was finally behaving himself for once, but instead his brother has gone straight back to acting like some sort of demonic Houdini. Sam should have known that this reprieve could only last so long.

“Dean,” Sam growls, voice low. “You realize that this kind of behavior will only prolong your punishment.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Oh, _damn_. Now I’ve lost my chance for parole. I’m so devastated.” He narrows his eyes, glaring dangerously, and adds in an angry undertone, “As if you were ever going to let me go free anyway.”

Sam glares right back and snaps, “Everything you say only goes towards proving my point. You don’t get the privilege of freedom until you show us that you _deserve_ it.”

Dean sniffs haughtily and turns away, slumping down in his chair, giving every sign of pretending that Sam doesn’t exist. Sam doesn’t roll his eyes even though he dearly wants to, because obviously someone here has to be the mature, responsible adult, and Sam is apparently the only one qualified in these parts.

“Well, enjoy your stay in the naughty corner, Dean. I’m sure your inner five year old finds the familiar environment very soothing,” he says, and he goes to the kitchen to put away the groceries.

Maybe making himself a salad will help him regain his Zen.

 

\---

 

Cas eventually lets Dean out of the devil’s trap after a few hours. From then on, he sticks to Dean like a limpet and is never to be found more than two feet away from his demonic charge, as Sam notes with great approval. Over the next few days, Dean can be found storming around the Bunker hallways, an irate expression on his face, Cas trailing after him like a lost puppy as Dean snaps at him angrily to “get lost”, or alternatively, when Cas gets a little too close for comfort, “Personal space, Cas! Remember?”

It is extremely gratifying to watch. Sam does not even bother to hide his smile.

 

\---

 

Later, Sam comes across Dean and Cas standing outside a bathroom.

“Cas, I need to pee,” Dean is saying insistently, glaring at Cas. “Stop following me.”

Castiel frowns at him sternly and says, “Dean. I know that demons do not need to urinate. Your transparent attempts at getting rid of me are really rather insulting.”

Dean doesn’t even have the grace to look ashamed.

“Well, I’m going to sleep now,” he announces.

“You don’t require sleep either,” Castiel tells him.

Dean gives him a withering glare. “Well, maybe I _want_ to sleep.”

Castiel sighs. “Very well, I shall accompany you into your bedroom.”

Dean gives him a scandalized look. “What? No! Stay out of my room, you creep!”

Cas gives him a hard stare. “And let you escape the moment my back is turned? Do you take me for an idiot? If you insist on sleeping, I am coming with you.”

Dean whines, “How many times have I told you, Cas? You standing there watching me sleep is way freaky. Seriously, it’s kinda rapey.”

Castiel gives him a firm stare that brooks no disobedience and Dean droops. “Whatever,” he mutters, and stalks off, Cas trailing two steps after him. “Maybe if I get some shut-eye, I won’t have to look at your stupid face anymore.”

Sam looks at the two of them walk off and shakes his head, unsure whether to be amused or just plain exasperated.

 

\---

 

Sam passes by the kitchen late one night on the way to the bathroom and hears raised voices from inside. He pauses, and then surreptitiously moves a little closer so that he can catch the conversation better, standing in the shadows in the hallway close enough to hear the conversation, yet far away enough that he can maintain plausible deniability if his brother and the angel start walking out. It’s not like he’s eavesdropping, he’s just uh… monitoring the situation.

Dean’s voice comes from within the kitchen, loud and clear, and Sam finds himself thanking the Men of Letters for the excellent acoustics of their underground Bunker. His voice is raised in agitation, “Cas, for the last time, stop following me! I need some _space_ , damn it.”

Castiel’s reply is softer, but just as forceful, “Dean, if I am to be a proper guardian, I need to be with you at all times. Please understand that.”

“Son of a bitch,” Dean curses. “You’re so goddamned annoying. Just leave me alone.”

“Dean, I thought you enjoyed my company,” Cas says, and Sam thinks maybe he hears a little hurt in the angel’s tone. “I thought you said we were friends.”

Dean’s reply takes a longer time to come. When he speaks again, it is in a softer voice, “I do enjoy your company, Cas. It’s just- I mean, it’s too much, you know?”

There is a long silence. Then suddenly, Cas speaks again, “Is this about what you told me when you were being cured?”

Dean draws a sharp breath, loud enough that Sam can hear it through the wall.

“I thought we agreed never to talk about that again,” he says, voice steely.

“But-"

Dean’s voice is dangerously flat. “Save it, Cas, I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Dean,” Cas tries again, but Dean cuts him off, and his voice is raised in unmistakable anger. “Just fuck off, okay?”

He comes storming out a moment later, and Sam jerks away from the wall, trying his best to look as though he hadn’t just been eavesdropping on what sounded suspiciously like an intensely private conversation between his brother and his best friend.

But Dean doesn’t even glance at him. He is too busy storming off. Castiel comes running out of the kitchen a moment later. He doesn’t notice Sam either, too focused on Dean’s rapidly disappearing silhouette. “Dean, wait!” he calls out as he runs after Dean. They disappear around the corner, and Sam slumps back against the wall, bewildered, his pulse still racing from his earlier fear of being caught.

_What on earth was that about?_

 

\---

 

However, the next time Sam sees Cas and Dean, they are acting perfectly normally. Well, normal for them anyway. Dean glares irritably at Cas, and makes cutting remarks about wanting to get some fresh air free of the stink of holy assbutt. Cas just glares back and tells Dean that at least he doesn’t smell like rotten eggs. They snipe at each other like an old married couple, all day and even all through the night (since neither of them, unlike Sam, need to sleep) until Sam, caught in the crossfire, is half tempted to go over and ask them to get over themselves and shut up.

But mostly, he’s just glad that someone other than himself is the focus of Dean’s ire now. Maybe that makes him a bit of a dick, but hey, Sam never claimed to be much of a saint. Cas, unlike Sam, is far better equipped to deal with all of Dean’s shit.

Eventually, though, it all comes to a head.

Sam is reading a newspaper in the library when Dean comes marching up to him, face red with annoyance, and demands, voice tight, “Make him stop.”

Behind him, Cas comes to a halt and frowns reproachfully at the back of Dean’s head.

Sam lowers the paper and flashes Dean a small, polite smile. “Hello, Dean,” he says pleasantly. “How are you doing today?”

Dean looks at him mutinously. His mouth twitches, as if he is trying his best to repress a snarl. Sam smirks at him. Maybe it’s petty of him, but it is extremely satisfying to watch Dean struggling to contain his obvious impulse to insult Sam.

“The angel,” he grits out finally, “Get rid of him.”

“I told you, Dean. Cas is gonna stay with you till you finally decide to cooperate with us.”

Dean glares at him. “You’ve made your point. Stop it. I’m sorry, alright?”

It is high time that Dean came begging, tail between his legs, and hell if it isn’t a little gratifying to see Dean so humbled. Sam feels a twinge of vindictive joy.

Sam arches an eyebrow at him and says, “I don’t think so, Dean. I don’t think you’ve quite learned your lesson yet.”

Dean growls low in his throat. “Look, he’s making me uncomfortable, okay?” He shifts awkwardly. “It was bad enough when he used to watch me _sleep._ Now, he’s watching me _all the time_. It’s creepy alright? It gives me the heebie-jeebies.”

Sam gives him an unamused look. “Maybe you should have thought about the consequences before you decided to pull all those stunts then.”

“This isn’t _fair_ ,” Dean protests.

“Cry me a river,” Sam says dryly. “Do you hear that sound?" He puts a hand to his ear and pretends to look around. "Somewhere out there, the world’s tiniest violin is playing a beautifully tragic song for you right now.”

The murderous look in Dean’s eyes tells Sam that he would probably be pinned against the wall right now, slowly choking to death, if Cas weren’t around to stop him.

Sam feels a little pang of fear, but he just smiles back at Dean beatifically as he says, “Until you cooperate with us, Cas is going to be sticking with you _forever_. Deal with it.”

Dean’s eyes flash dangerously. “I hate you, you bastard,” he spits emphatically, his tone utterly venomous, and Sam tries to ignore how each word feels like a hook digging into his flesh. Lips curled into a silent snarl, Dean turns and storms off. Cas flashes Sam a brief sympathetic look before hurrying after him.

Despite telling himself resolutely that he doesn’t give a single shit whether Dean hates him or not for the fifth time in the past ten minutes, Sam finds himself unable to focus on the words on the newspaper in front of him, even after he tries his very best to. Eventually, he gives it up as a lost cause and heads to the kitchen, bypassing the fridge to go straight to the alcohol cabinet, where he pulls out something a hell of a lot stronger than beer.

 

\---

 

It is only after five hours that he thinks to check on Dean and Cas.

It is eight hours later, having spent the past three of those hours frantically dialing Castiel’s number and leaving increasingly worried voicemail messages, that Sam finally concedes to himself that perhaps he should have listened a little more and been a bit less harsh with Dean.

It is nine hours later that Sam finally allows the truth to sink in: Dean has once again slipped the leash and both he and Castiel are nowhere to be found.

 _Shit_ , he thinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Americans do have self-checkout machines right? (Marvelous piece of technology, 10/10 totally would recommend ;D) Google seems to say yes, but it's possibly not very common? Anyway, I wanted to include a joke about UNEXPECTED ITEM IN THE BAGGING AREA because I have been a victim of that way too many times to count. I apologize for the incredibly self-indulgent joke.
> 
> Anyway. Next chapter will finally see our angel-demon duo handcuffed together. Gosh, I can't believe it's taking me what? 6? chapters to get to the central premise of this fic. Whoops? xD


	6. I may be bad (but I’m perfectly good at it)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After making his break for it, Dean visits Vegas (and various other exciting locales). When he returns to the Bunker, triumphant, Sam decides that far more drastic measures are required to make sure he doesn’t take off again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from a certain Rihanna song about chains and whips. I thought it might be fitting ;D –whistles innocently-
> 
> (I recommend listening to the aforementioned song when the fight scene starts up later in the chapter for increased amusement value. Do it. You know you want to.)

_Sin City,_ Dean thinks to himself with satisfaction, still buzzing with what feels like the world’s best afterglow, _sure lives up to its name._

All around him, the glittering lights of Las Vegas are blazing, so bright it is practically day. Dean surveys his surroundings with barely contained glee, taking in the leaping fountains, glittering lightshows and grand buildings; there is even a fake volcano erupting.

Vegas. It's overly ostentatious, horrendously glitzy and so sickly slick it feels like an oil spill of gluttony and greed slowly smothering the rest of America with its vice-laden poison. It is a true cesspit of sin and immorality.

Dean loves it.

He wanders around the Las Vegas Strip, and sneers at the hordes of tourists with their flashing cameras. His lips twitch into a smirk as the tourists in front of him yell in horror, their cameras meeting an untimely demise with a sad crackling noise and a shower of sparks, having mysteriously undergone spontaneous combustion.

Dean resists the urge to cackle at the sweet chorus of terror as the tourists scream in panic as one, all of them dropping their cameras like they had just turned into snakes. _Like a bunch of headless chickens_ , he thinks to himself smugly as he strolls away from the scene of his crime, the cockles of his black, shriveled heart warmed by the glowing satisfaction of a bad deed well done.

He is in front of the Mirage when an idea comes to him, and he has to resist the urge to rub his hands in devilish glee. With a spring in his step, he straightens his jacket and walks into the casino, heading straight for the tables where all the high rollers are gathered around like sheep for the fleecing. And Dean knows fleecing when he sees it; he is an expert in freeing people from their money. Maybe he does it on a little less professionally than major casino outlets, but pool hustling and the casino industry aren’t really all that different when you come to think of it, except for a mere matter of scale.

Dean reaches the roulette table and pulls out a wad of cash that has just mysteriously appeared inside his jacket pocket. He places it on the table and gets a stack of chips in return. Casually, he pushes the whole stack, all six hundred and sixty six dollars’ worth of chips, onto the layout to make a straight bet on number twenty two.

“Hoo boy, someone’s feeling lucky today,” the older gentleman beside him comments with a friendly smile. He is dressed in a tweed suit that is rather too large for him and smells faintly of cigars. “All of that on twenty two?”

Dean turns to smile at him pleasantly and shrugs. “What can I say? I _am_ feeling lucky.”

He sits back and crosses his arms as he waits for the dealer to begin the game.

The roulette wheel spins, and who would have known it? The ball lands right on twenty two.

Dean smiles and accepts his now much larger stack of chips.

“You’re one lucky fella,” the old fellow in the suit says.

Dean flashes him a winsome grin. “Today’s my lucky day,” he says, and he pushes all his chips onto the square for six.

The ball rolls around the wheel and surprise, surprise, it comes to a halt on six.

Smirking, Dean accepts his rapidly swelling stack of chips.

The older man whistles. “Maybe I should start following your bets. You psychic or something?”

“Something,” Dean says, flashing the man a bright smile. He moves his chips to number thirty six.

The ball rolls to a stop on thirty six. Dean accepts his winnings to a round of applause. At this point, everyone else at the table has stopped placing their own bets. Instead, they’re all just watching Dean with unabashed curiosity.

“How is he doing that?” one of them mutters. “No idea,” someone else says.

Smiling, Dean gathers up his mountain of chips in both hands and shoves them all onto number thirteen as the gathered crowd watches in fascinated horror.

“You sure that’s wise, man?” one of the on-lookers asks. “Maybe you should just take your money and leave.” A few others nod along with him, murmuring agreement.

“Nah,” Dean announces grandly, “I’m on a roll.”

The dealer is starting to look rather worried. He throws a nervous glance at Dean, but Dean just smiles guilelessly back.

The wheel spins and the ball comes up on thirteen. A round of cheering breaks out behind Dean, and the older gentleman whoops loudly. “You have the devil’s own luck,” he tells Dean in wonderment.

“I do, don’t I?” Dean says, smirking as he accepts all the congratulations from his new roulette groupies. “You gonna continue?” one of them asks.

Dean ponders the question. “Hmmm,” he says, and looks down at the absolutely monstrous pile of chips he has in his hands. “I guess I’ve had enough for now,” he says and signals the dealer to cash him out.

There are a few groans of disappointment.

“Guess you shouldn’t tempt fate,” a lady says as she nods sagely. “Can’t stay this lucky forever.” There are a few mutters of agreement.

One of the onlookers shakes his head in disbelief. “It’s crazy, man. How did you do it?” he asks Dean. “You gotta tell me the trick. I’ve been losing all day before you came along.” He sighs despondently.

Dean shrugs modestly. “I guess I’m just naturally lucky,” he declares, as he accepts the huge bag of cash the dealer nervously hands to him. From the way the man is looking at him, Dean suspects that security is already on its way. Well, looks like it’s time for him to blow this joint.

Swinging his new bag of cash over his shoulder, Dean crosses the casino pit, whistling a cheery tune. He strolls leisurely across the casino floor towards the exit, passing by the slot machines as he goes.

As he walks past the numerous rows of machines, he is followed by a chorus of ecstatic screaming accompanied by the clinking of coins. Casino-goers are jumping up, pumping their hands in baffled joy as the slot machines discharge a veritable avalanche of coins. Everywhere, the machines are hitting jackpot and people are screaming as they scramble around for more buckets to collect their winnings. But the flood of coins continues without pause, and soon even the floor is littered with them. People are screaming in uncontrollable joy and money is flying everywhere. It is absolute chaos.

Dean couldn’t be prouder.

It is against this charmingly picturesque backdrop that two security guards catch up with him. They are built like Mack Trucks. They were probably carved from boulders made out of solid muscle. “Sorry sir,” one of them says, not at all apologetically, “Do you mind accompanying us to the manager’s office?” The way he says it makes it abundantly clear that it was not meant to be a request.

Dean pretends to sigh wearily. “Oh, very well,” he says in a tone of one who has been extremely put-upon. “I hope this won’t take long. I’ve got things to get to, y’know. Very important things. Like my Game of Thrones episode. I don’t wanna miss that. I need to know if that bastard Joffrey finally bites the dust. It’s very important to me.” He clasps a hand to his chest dramatically, and gives the guards a worried look.

The guards are unamused, and apparently indifferent to Dean’s emotional needs in relation to fantasy TV dramas. They escort him to a small room at the side of the casino floor. A posh-looking gilded chair with plush maroon cushions is pulled out for him, and he is invited to take a seat with a polite “Please wait for a moment, sir. The casino manager will be with you in a moment after checking on certain… irregularities.”

The guards then proceed to stand at each side of the doorway, staring blankly into the air in front of them like statues, two extremely intimidating walls of muscles in between Dean and freedom.

Smiling nonchalantly, Dean flops down on the chair and leans back languidly, the very picture of a man who couldn't care any less. He places his heavy bag of winnings on his lap.

“Hey you,” he calls, and one of the guards turns to look at him. His face is consummately blank, a smoothly professional mask of bland politeness, but beneath it, Dean can detect the barest hint of irritation. Dean smirks. “Yes you. Burly dude. You believe in the supernatural?”

The man frowns at him in confusion. “I’m… sorry?” he says.

Dean sighs. They sure don’t build them for intelligence in the meathead factory.

“Y’know. Ghosts. Witches. Demons. Things that go bump in the night.”

The guards exchange wary glances. “Are you feeling alright, sir?” Burly Dude asks him.

Dean flashes him a grin, and declares brightly, “I’m great. Never been better!” After a beat, he adds, “Just a piece of advice, fellas. You go around screaming about demons, folks tend to think you’re crazy.”

The guards stare at him, bemused.

Dean lets his eyes turn black and flashes them his most evil smirk. (He has been practicing it in the mirror for _weeks_. He’s pretty proud of it.) The guards look at him in horror, their mouths dropping open almost simultaneously. Dean is extremely gratified to see that his practice has paid off.

“See ya, bitches,” he says as he gives a jaunty little wave to the shell-shocked security guards. With a snap of his fingers, he disappears.

When he reappears, it is on a side street in some nondescript small town. Plastic bags and stray newspaper pages fly past him in the wind. Huddled against the wall opposite Dean is a homeless man, who looks up, startled, at Dean’s sudden appearance, before scrambling away in shock.

Dean puts a finger to his lips and grins secretively. He looks down at the bag of cash he has, and smiles disarmingly before he tosses it at the feet of the nervous-looking vagrant. Looking warily at the bag and then at Dean, the man opens it cautiously and peeks inside. Shocked, he looks up again, eyes large with unbelieving delight, but by then, Dean is already gone.

 

\----

 

Dean surveys the landscape below him, the first rays of dawn glimmering on the edge of the horizon, lighting the cityscape stretched out beneath him with a lush golden-red glow. The wind whips past his face, and if he were still human, he would probably be numb with cold at the moment. But if he were still human, he wouldn’t be perched on the very top of the Eiffel Tower in the first place.

Dean lets go of one hand from the steel girder he is clinging to, and leans into the breeze, stretching his hand out towards the city below as if he could touch it. He can barely make out the individual cars and people going about their daily business beneath him. They scurry about like ants, unmindful and unknowing, concerned only about their mundane human cares. Dean can almost imagine their thoughts, trifling and self-concerned. _What should I wear? Should I call François today?_ _Why is it so cold this morning? I should have brought a warmer jacket. Gosh, I hate my boss so much. I hate getting stuck in early morning jams. I wish I could fly._

The rat race. The apple pie life. Two and a half kids and a white picket fence. Or perhaps, given his current location, he should say: _une clôture blanche_?

Dean scoffs.

These people know nothing of the wider world, of what exists beyond the bounds of their petty imaginations. They don’t know that out there lurk forces of inimical evil, waiting for just the slightest opportunity to sink their claws into the dredges of humanity’s filth, just waiting for the chance to enslave or eradicate the whole miserable human race. They don’t know how fragile their little lives are, or how very close they have come to complete, utter destruction. So very many times.

Dean doesn’t know whether to pity them or wish that he could be like that too.

He remembers what Crowley asked him once: _You never get tired of the rat race? You never get the urge to just bugger off and howl at the moon? Never ask yourself, is this it? Is this all there is?_

Dean is free now. He could do anything, go anywhere he wants. He could visit the Taj Mahal and be back in Illinois for some lunch and a pie. He could go to the Arctic and attempt to scare some polar bears. He could visit Africa and see some actual lions, not just the ones on TV. He could go to the Sydney Opera House and catch Madame Butterfly, then be back in France for a relaxing riverside meal by the Seine. He could go to Disneyland like he always secretly wanted to. He could drop by the White House and sit in the President’s chair all night and put his feet all over the table and no one would be any the wiser. The possibilities are endless. The world, as they say, is his oyster (... or other shellfish of choice; Dean personally prefers lobster).

The first rays of the sun hit the metal beneath Dean’s feet and the golden light slowly rises up to envelop him as well, a pleasant warmth on his skin. Dean looks out at the pale blue sky, still tinged with brilliant shades of red and gold, and he looks down at the city beneath his feet, lit up shining by the dawn’s light. It is breathtakingly beautiful. But Dean doesn’t feel anything except a blank emptiness, and the wistful thought, _If only Cas was here to see this with me_.

He wonders where Cas is now.

After using the banishing sigil on him, Dean had immediately teleported himself away from the Bunker, and he knows that with the Enochian sigils Cas himself carved onto Dean’s ribs, the angel will be unable to locate him. The irony should be amusing, but Dean just feels kind of bad.

Dean could do anything he wants, but the only thing he really wants to do is go home.

With a weary sigh, Dean snaps his fingers and disappears from the Eiffel Tower, none of the humans beneath him any the wiser as to the crisis of conscience that had just taken place above them.

 

\---

 

Sam paces around the library, feeling as though he just might go mad. Just to think- his brother might actually succeed where Satan himself had failed. Now, wouldn’t that be funny? Absolutely fan-fucking-tastic. It’s side-splitting hilarious.

Sam isn’t laughing.

He has long since stopped trying to dial Castiel’s number. In the ten hours since he last saw Dean, Sam has graduated from mild worry to gut-churning anxiety to mind-numbing fear for Castiel’s life and the lives of the billions of innocent humans on the planet. But after the umpteenth time of trying to contact Cas in vain, and seeing neither hide nor hair of both his brother and the angel, Sam has finally settled in a state of quasi-Zen, calm on the surface but boiling within with an irrational simmering anger for Dean, Cas, himself, the universe and everything that exists in it.

When Cas finally appears in a flutter of wings, Sam is too angry and strung up with stress to feel relieved.

Sam leaps to his feet from where he had been slumped on a chair in the library and glares accusingly at Cas. “Where the hell have you been? I’ve been trying to call you for the past few hours. Where’s the _enfant terrible_?”

Cas looks away guiltily. “I may have… lost Dean,” he mutters, shamefaced.

“What do you mean you ‘ _lost Dean’_?” Sam says, and his voice rises until the last two words are almost a shout.

Cas looks absolutely wretched. “I looked away for a moment, and then he…”

Sam glares at him, too angry and frustrated to muster up any sympathy. “Damn it, Cas. You’re an _angel_ , for God’s sake. How do you lose track of one single demon? The one single demon I assigned you to watch over twenty four seven? The demon who already tried to banish you once? Ever heard of the phrase ‘once bitten twice shy’? How on earth did you get tricked again?”

A small part of Sam is aware that he is being extremely bitchy, and perhaps taking out his frustrations on Cas is not only counterproductive, but also ungrateful in the extreme, but that small part of his brain is being wrestled into pathetic, mewling submission by the churning mass of anger and anxiety boiling over in his chest like a seething cauldron full of poison.

Cas opens his mouth.

Sam holds up his hand. “Wait, don’t answer that. I don’t want to hear it.”

Sam paces, Cas watching him warily like Sam is a volcano and Cas is just waiting for him to explode.

“Where the hell is he now?” Sam mutters angrily.

Cas shifts, and says quietly, barely loud enough to be heard. “I... don’t know. The Enochian sigils I carved onto Dean’s ribs are still active-"

Sam scowls. “ _Great._ Just great.” He strides towards the War Room, muttering to himself, “Now, we’re gonna have to hunt him down all over again-"

Just at that moment, Dean appears out of thin air right in front of Sam, smirking cockily.

“Missed me?” he asks cheerily.

Sam rounds on him.

“You son of a bitch,” he growls. He slams Dean into the wall, hard enough that if Dean was human, all the breath would have been knocked out of him. However, Dean just smiles lazily at him, unfazed, the smug bastard.

“Where the fuck did you go?” Sam snarls at him.

Dean smiles mysteriously at him, eyes alight with gleeful mischief. “Wouldn’t you like to know,” he says lightly, and Sam’s eyes narrow dangerously. He growls low in his throat and presses Dean harder into the wall, causing Dean to wince and scowl at him.

“I just went out for a bit of fresh air without the angel, alright? Can you blame a man for wanting some alone time once in a while? Jeeze.” He glares at Sam with an air of indignant hurt. “I didn’t kill anybody, okay? Take a chill pill.”

Sam sniffs and other than the ever-present sulfur, he smells the stink of alcohol and sex on Dean. He tightens his grip on Dean’s collar.

“Where did you go? I won’t ask again.”

Dean glares witheringly at him.

“Just a few places I’ve always wanted to visit,” he says, and his face softens as he seems to drop into fond reminiscence. “Vegas, Paris, the Smithsonian. Did a bit of sightseeing.” He smiles. “Let me tell you, the view from the top of the Eiffel Tower at dawn is absolutely stunning. Anyway, I brought back a few souvenirs for you guys.” Dean flashes them a brilliant grin, and Sam has a sinking feeling in his chest. “Check it out.”

Dean points behind Sam, and Sam reluctantly lets go of him and turns around to look. It takes a few moments, but then Sam realizes that there is a new painting on the wall where there wasn’t one before. Sam’s heart nearly stutters in shock.

“You stole the Mona Lisa?!” he cries, and his voice absolutely does _not_ squeak.

Dean smirks at him, and says casually, “I thought the Bunker could use some decoration. The walls were looking distressingly bare. It’s rather depressing.” He sighs. “Especially when you’re stuck here all day. Thought I’d liven things up a little. It was a toss up between Mona or a pin-up. I thought I’d cater to your more priggish tastes.” He flashes Sam a bright grin. “I’m considerate like that.”

Sam stares at him in numb shock.

Dean smiles and takes something out of his jacket pocket before continuing airily, “Oh and I got something else for you as well.” On his index finger dangles a necklace of white diamonds with an enormous blue diamond set in its center. “Say hello to your new best friend, Sammy,” he declares and gives Sam a saucy wink. “I saw it and I thought of you. I just know it’ll go splendidly with your princess outfit.”

Sam’s throat works, but it takes a few seconds before words come out. “Is that… the Hope Diamond? You son of a bitch!”

Dean smirks.

“You don’t want it?” he says in a tone of mock hurt. He turns to Castiel, offering the diamond necklace to the angel with a roguish smile. “Well then I’m giving it to Cas.”

Cas frowns at Dean sternly.

“You should put that back, Dean. It is property of the Smithsonian museum,” he tells Dean gravely.

Dean pouts. He puts the necklace back into his pocket.

“You’re no fun,” he tells Cas, sniffing condescendingly.

Sam feels as though he is about to explode from anger. He opens his mouth, and is ready to unleash an absolutely eviscerating tirade upon Dean when loud upbeat music starts to emanate from his pocket. Sam frowns and digs out his phone. The ringtone is still set to the stupidly annoying song that Dean changed it to two weeks ago, having remained stubbornly so despite all Sam’s attempts to change it back. Sam has half a mind to just go ahead with his verbal excoriation of Dean, but the music shows no sign of stopping anytime soon.

As Dean smirks at him impertinently, the strains of " _I'm a Barbie Girl, in the Barbie world_ " ring out in the otherwise dead silence of the Bunker and Sam has to resist the urge to hurl his phone away. " _Life in plastic, it's fantastic. You can brush my hair, undress me everywh_ -"

Sam scowls, swiping his finger across the screen in one angry motion.

He puts the phone to his ear. Leaning casually against the wall, Dean grins smarmily at him.

“Hello? Sam?” Garth's voice comes over the line, excited and slightly breathless.

Sam only manages to get out a “Hey Garth-“ before Garth is speaking over him, gabbling in obvious enthusiasm.

“Sam, you gotta take a look at this,” he says, “Someone just graffitied the Statue of Liberty- it’s all over the news. Have you heard about it?”

Sam frowns. “No, that’s uh… nice to know? Hey, listen. Was there a reason why you were calling me up? I mean- other than to tell me about the defacement of national monuments? Cos I’m kinda busy at the moment-“

Garth cuts him off. “Look, here’s the thing- whoever did it, they drew a goatee and black eyes on Lady Liberty. Pure black eyes. Like demons, you know. And I was thinking- Nothing human could have gotten up there and painted all that without anyone noticing. Well, not easily anyway. So I had this theory- maybe it’s demons? I don’t know why they did it, but…”

Garth continues speaking, but Sam isn’t listening anymore. He takes the phone away from his ear, and stares hard at Dean.

Dean is smirking; there is a sly look in his eyes and he is smiling like there is some great cosmic joke that he and only he knows the punchline to.

Sam covers his phone and says dangerously, “Dean. Did you have anything to do with the recent defilement of one of America’s most beloved national icons?”

Dean shrugs and smiles at him beatifically.

“I thought about carving my face into Mount Rushmore, but that was a bit too much work,” he replies airily.

Sam growls, and fights the urge to gnash his teeth.

He puts the phone to his ear again. Over the line, Garth is still chattering away, giving no sign of noticing Sam’s absence. “… could be a demonic pissing contest, or maybe it’s some kind of statement-“ he is saying, but Sam cuts him off.

Doing his best to keep his voice calm and level, he says, “Garth, I think I have a fairly good idea of who did it, and why.”

Garth pauses, and says, startled, “What? Really? Who was it?”

Scowling, Sam bites out, “Someone who is about to be,” he enunciates each word and glares daggers at Dean as he spits out, “ _very, very sorry_.” He takes a deep breath before continuing, in a much gentler tone, “Anyway, thanks for the heads up, Garth. I’ve got this covered.”

There is a moment of awkward silence over the line before Garth says slowly, “Okay… Tell Dean I said hi, will you?”

Through gritted teeth, Sam says, voice strained, “Sure, I’ll give him your regards.”

He hangs up. Dean is leaning forward in excitement, grinning at him cheerfully.

“Was that Garth?” he asks and a familiar devilish glint of mischief comes into his eyes, “He still thinks I’m human, doesn’t he?” There is a contemplative pause before he continues gleefully, “Y’know, maybe it’s time I paid him a visit-“

Sam steps forward and leans in close into stare firmly into Dean’s eyes. His voice is absolutely deadly as he says, “This has gone far enough, Dean. You will leave Garth alone and put everything back right now.”

Dean scoffs, “Or what? You’ll sic the angel on me? Shoot me?”

Sam growls through gritted teeth, “I’m beginning to seriously consider the merits of that course of action.”

Dean glares at him defiantly, and juts his chin up as he declares, “Go ahead then. Shoot me. Cut me up and bury me in cement like Abaddon.” His eyes flash pure black and he bares his teeth at Sam. “No?” He sneers, and spits jeeringly, “You don’t have the _guts_ to do it.”

Sam looks at him with incredulous anger. “Why are you acting like a spoilt child? Defacing national monuments? Stealing priceless museum artifacts? Stop throwing tantrums and start acting your age, Dean!”

Cas glares sternly at Dean and adds, “Sam is right, Dean. You should not have done that.”

Dean sneers at him. “Get this, feathers,” he says mockingly, “I do what I want. I don’t need your permission, I make my own decisions. That’s my prerogative.”

Cas stares at him. “Are you quoting Britney Spears lyrics at me, Dean?”

Dean looks briefly surprised, and then his mouth twists into an unhappy frown.

“I really hate Metatron for making you pop culture savvy. It’s not fun anymore when you’re in on the joke,” he mutters sullenly. “That absolute _bastard_. If only I’d managed to kill him.”

Sam is about at his breaking point. “Dean,” he says, voice low with dangerous finality, “If you _ever_ want to see a _hint_ of daylight again, you will stop being such a child and behave yourself!”

Dean just sticks out his tongue and says, derision clear in each pointedly enunciated word, “ _Bite me.”_

Sam turns to look at Castiel. “Cas, grab him.”

Castiel complies, grabbing Dean around the waist and lifting Sam's brother easily into the air. Dean struggles in his arms, kicking and scratching, but Cas is unfazed by the bundle of agonized demon in his arms. He stands, still and impassive as a statute, as Dean futilely bats at him, yowling vile imprecations. “Get your hands off me, you son of a bitch!” he howls, but Cas does not even spare him a glance.

Dean bites down hard on Castiel’s hand. Castiel stares down at him, where Dean’s face is level with his crotch, mouth still clamped tight around Castiel’s hand.

Cas tells him sternly, “Stop biting me, Dean. It won’t work.”

Dean growls and does not let go. Teeth still clamped firmly around Castiel’s hand, he shakes his head furiously and makes some muffled noises that sound suspiciously like “Fuck off.”

The angel and demon proceed to engage in an intense staring contest, made only the _slightest_ bit ridiculous because of Dean’s position- slung over Castiel’s shoulders in something like a bastardized version of a fireman’s carry, his legs up and kicking futilely at the air while his head dangles precariously close to Castiel’s… holy jewels.

Sam brings Crowley’s old handcuffs out of his pocket. _Sometimes_ , he thinks, _it pays to be prepared_.

Before either Dean or Cas can react, he has snapped the handcuffs around the two of them.

Dean releases Castiel’s now handcuffed arm in surprise and his mouth continues to hang open as he stares down at his own cuffed hand.

“What the fuck, dude?” he says, outrage clear in his voice.

Cas lifts his hand up and looks at the handcuff around his hand in bemusement.

His voice is slightly plaintive as he asks, “Why am I handcuffed too?”

He slowly releases Dean, who slides down to the ground in a clumsy heap at Castiel's feet before irritably attempting to straighten himself up. There is a lot of awkward shuffling about as he tries to get around the limited range of movement brought about by their handcuffed hands. He is forced to twist around and contort himself into a series of increasingly ridiculous positions before finally yanking himself upright into a standing position next to Cas with a great grunt of annoyance, his dignity more than slightly ruffled. He glares at Sam and Cas with an air of hurt pride.

Sam manages not to snigger.

Instead, he turns to Cas and says with somewhat more waspishness than is probably warranted, “You’re supposed to be his caretaker, aren’t you? He’s your responsibility now. Dean can pick locks. And I need to sleep. But you don’t. And as we already agreed, you’re the one around here most qualified to deal with a misbehaving demon.”

And Sam knows this is bitchy but he can’t stop himself from adding, “Also, this way it’s _physically impossible_ for you to lose him again.”

Cas looks down at his hand, chained to Dean’s. He says mournfully, “I feel as though this is my punishment just as much as it is his.”

Dean glares at him. “Hey, I’m not exactly thrilled about this either!” He tugs ineffectually at the chain, scowling.

Cas snorts.

Dean turns to Sam, and says, “Let us out, Sammy. I get it, alright. I’m sorry. I’ll put everything back. I won’t do it again.” He holds their cuffed hands out towards Sam and smiles pleadingly. “Please, Sammy?” His smile could have been made from a distillation of puppies, sunbeams, rainbows and a million unicorns.

Sam is thoroughly unimpressed.

“Save it, Dean,” he tells his obviously unrepentant brother, “You’re going to stay like this until you’ve learnt your lesson. Let’s see how well-behaved you are at the end of the month, and maybe I’ll consider taking the cuffs off.”

Dean’s mouth drops open. “You can’t do this!” he protests. “This is nuts!” He looks at Cas pleadingly. “Cas! Tell him to stop this nonsense. This isn’t fair to you either!”

Cas looks conflicted, but eventually he says, “I’m sorry, Dean. But Sam has a point. You need to be taught a lesson. You need to learn that tricking me and escaping from the Bunker comes with its consequences.”

Dean stares at him, and the betrayed look on his face slowly morphs into fury.

Dean throws Cas a glare filled with spite and says venomously, “Thanks for your support, Cas. You’re a _great_ friend. I don’t even know why I bothered coming back here. I don't have to take this kind of _abuse_ from the two of you.”

Sam snorts. “Guilt tripping Cas won’t help you, Dean. I’m the one with the key,” he says and he takes the key out from his pocket to waggle it tauntingly at Dean.

Maybe it’s a bit like waving a red flag at a bull, but with the mood he is in now, Sam is all for throwing caution to the wind. Dean is far overdue for a taste of his own medicine.

He smiles vindictively at Dean and says slowly, savoring Dean’s expression of impotent rage, “This is going somewhere nice and secure.” He pretends to think about it, tapping a finger against his chin. “I’m thinking... box with a Devil’s Trap carved on it. Placed inside another Devil’s Trap… in a room with a Devil's Trap at the entrance.” He smirks at Dean's furious face. “Devil's Traps..." he says musingly, "They're like pies, actually, when you think about it... You can really never have too many.” He flashes Dean his best shit-eating grin.

“You bastard! I’m going to kill you!” Dean snarls.

He surges forward towards Sam, dragging a startled Cas with him. Cas loses his balance and crashes into Dean, sending them both toppling onto the ground in a tangle of limbs.

Dean snarls viciously and fights to get Cas off him. He ends up jabbing Cas in the eye with his elbow while Castiel's foot lands hard on his chest. They crash into the floor again in a tumble of wildly flailing limbs. Watching them struggle, Sam finds himself feeling vaguely glad that both of them are more than human. If not, there would be a whole lot of blood and bruises right now.

Dean is screaming in rage, “Get your fat feathered ass off me, you clumsy bastard!”

“My vessel is in no way overweight and you know that, Dean!” Cas shouts hotly in reply.

Dean sneers, and his voice drips with cutting disdain, “Oh, I’m _sorry_ , did I hurt your delicate little angel feelings?”

He surges upward, and makes another leap towards Sam. However, his motion is aborted as Cas yanks him back by the cuffs and Dean staggers backward. He glares at Cas and starts forward again, only to be given another solid yank backwards by the handcuff chains, pulling him back towards Cas.

Dean turns and glares at Castiel venomously as he hisses, “Stop that!”

Cas gives him a firm glare. “I won’t let you hurt your brother, Dean.”

Dean responds by trying to punch Cas in the face. Cas ducks to one side and the left hook goes sailing past. Dean overbalances and he goes crashing into Cas, bearing them both down onto the floor again with an audible thud. Recovering quickly, Dean throws another punch at Cas with his cuffed right hand, causing Castiel’s left hand to be borne towards his face as well. Their cuffed hands smack into Castiel’s cheek with a solid meaty thump. Sam winces. If Castiel wasn’t an angel, he would be spitting blood and teeth by now.

Cas retaliates by kicking Dean hard in the stomach with both legs, throwing the snarling demon off himself, but Dean's motion drags Cas up as well by the handcuff chains, and the two of them go crashing into the wall as they tumble about, kicking and scratching, yelling insults at each other like they’re enacting the world’s most epic kindergarten slap fight between the forces of good and evil.

“You stupid assbutt,” Cas cries as he tries to pin Dean, but it turns into a cry of pain as Dean elbows him in the throat. “Get some better insults, featherass!” he retorts, and is promptly punched in the jaw by Cas, who surges upwards with a vengeance.

They grapple viciously with each other as they go rolling around on the floor, screaming and kicking all the way. Despite losing most of his demonic powers, Dean is obviously still freakishly strong. He manages to pin Cas against the ground and has both hands around Castiel’s throat in a stranglehold, the muscles in his arms bulging as he attempts to keep the furious angel down. Cas strains against his hold before suddenly kneeing Dean in the balls and using the opportunity to flip them around.

“Son of a bitch!” Dean yowls in pain, hands automatically going towards his hurting man-bits.

 _It is good to know that that trick still works on demons_ , Sam thinks, after wincing in involuntary sympathy. His second thought is- _When did Cas learn to fight so dirty?_

Cas leans down on Dean, trapping Dean with the weight of his body. Dean struggles against him, but Castiel pins him down, legs wrapped firmly around Dean’s torso, preventing him from moving. Dean’s hands are splayed out at his sides, held fast to the ground by Castiel’s supernaturally strong grip on his wrists.

Cas glares down at Dean, chest heaving as his breath comes heavy and fast. His voice is rough and ragged from the fighting, even more gravelly than usual as he growls, “Stop fighting me, Dean. You know you can’t win.” He stares into Dean’s eyes, and his furious gaze is practically brimming over with wild ferocity and barely contained power.

Eyes still watering in pain, Dean glares back at him, also breathing heavily. They stare into each other's eyes intently, a warring contest of wills, as Sam waits with bated breath. But eventually, Dean submits. He slumps down to the floor, all the fight gone out of him.

They remain in that position, staring deep into each other's eyes, and it goes on long enough for Sam to start getting uncomfortable. By the rapidly darkening flush on Dean’s face, it seems that Sam isn’t the only one realizing the awkwardness of their situation.

Dean clears his throat. “Cas?” he says haltingly, “Mind getting off me now?”

Cas startles out of whatever reverie it was that had gripped him. “Oh, sorry Dean,” he says, face reddening in embarrassment.

He rolls off Dean, and both of them struggle to their feet with no small amount of discomfiture.

 _That was… awkward,_ Sam thinks to himself as he shakes his head. He decides to get straight down to business.

“Cas, I need you to return everything to their rightful places,” he instructs the angel.

Cas looks at Dean and then down at their bound hands.

“But what about Dean?” he asks.

Sam pauses. “Take him with you,” he tells Castiel, “He should learn that actions have consequences, and that he needs to deal with the messes he makes.”

He turns to look sternly at Dean as he addresses him directly, “Consider this part of your rehabilitation. Making amends for your wrongs.”

Dean scowls, a rebellious expression on his face. “Screw you. Who died and made you judge, jury and executioner? I’m not some criminal you can just order around, _your honor_ ,” he sneers.

Sam doesn’t reply. He just takes the Mona Lisa down carefully and holds it out at Dean, who glares at him furiously. Sam just stares back at Dean impassively until Dean finally takes the painting from him with an air of great reluctance.

Grumbling in an undertone, he says, “It’s not like anyone would have missed this dumb thing anyway. They’d probably have put a new one up and called it the real thing. Nobody would even notice the difference.”

Sam nods at Cas. Cas nods back before he places his uncuffed hand on Dean’s shoulder, and then they are gone in a flutter of wings, leaving Sam alone in the library with nothing but silence and his nearly empty bottle of Johnny Walker Black for company.

Weary beyond belief, Sam slumps down into a chair. He still has to go hide the key to the cuffs.

Sam can tell that it is going to be a long night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have taken a certain amount of artistic license with the slot machines in the casino still using coins. Google says these have been phased out apparently? But I think having actual coins dropping everywhere is far more satisfying than seeing the numbers popping up on the screen or whatever electronic stuff they have in Vegas nowadays. I am also ignoring the existence of maximum bet amounts for dramatic purposes. So please pardon the inaccuracy! 
> 
> Also, it may be painfully obvious that I have never played roulette (or done any kind of martial art) in my life before. Do feel free to correct me if I got anything wrong. If not, let’s just put it down to artistic license :)
> 
> Next up: Cuffed together hijinks! 8D -rubs hands in glee-


	7. Irony is a Canine of the Female Gender

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean and Cas deal with their new situation. Dean attempts to annoy his way to freedom, but all his plans backfire, with rather spectacular results.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a sad announcement to make guys. My finals are in about a week’s time, so you won’t be hearing from me for a while. Please accept my deepest apologies! However, I’ll be done with exams by the end of the month, so expect to see an update sometime before July starts.
> 
> Rest assured that this fic WILL be finished, even if I have to sell my soul to do so. Though if that means sealing a crossroads deal with Dean or Crowley, that really wouldn’t be too much of a hardship, if you catch my drift ;D

If Dean Winchester kept a diary of bad deeds (like one of those good deed a day journals, but for those of a more demonic persuasion), it would have gone something like this:

 

Shit I did today

  1. Escaped from angel. Proceeded to sleep my way through half of Vegas and consume approximately two truckloads of alcohol. Was thoroughly debauched. Highly enjoyable, would gladly come back for more.
  2. Ruined the day of group of British tourists (reminded me too much of Crowley). Destroyed over $5000 worth of overpriced photographic equipment in spontaneous electronic fire. Very therapeutic.
  3. Played roulette. Defrauded Mirage of few million bucks. Gave it all to random hobo. (Take that, casino industry!)
  4. Went to top of Eiffel Tower. Stared out into sunrise. Had Emotional Crisis. Was very trying.
  5. Visited Louvre. Stole the Mona Lisa. Nobody noticed. Am obviously master thief. Do not even need crew of 10 other people to accomplish simple burglary. Suck on that, George Clooney.
  6. Went to Smithsonian. Made dinosaur bones come to life to scare some guards. (very amusing, always loved Night at the Museum, but not so much the shitty sequels) Also, stole Hope Diamond for Sammy. Am obviously model brother. Totally deserve a gold star.
  7. Decorated Statue of Liberty. Lady Liberty looking very fetching now. Should consider career change as graffiti artist. Like Banksy, except way better.
  8. Went back to Bunker. Idiot brother chained me to angel. Tried to pummel said angel. Sadly, kinda got butt handed to me. Not my finest moment.
  9. Was then forced to make reparations and put everything back while angel scolded me like naggy parent. Extremely humiliating.
  10. Came back to Bunker. Proceeded to sulk. WORST day of my life.



 

Sadly, Dean does not actually keep a journal. He is too allergic to feelings for that kind of thing. But if he did, it would probably have gone a whole lot like that.

 

\---

 

After they return to the Bunker from the Smithsonian, Dean unceremoniously drops into a chair in the library and proceeds to sulk. Cas, leashed to him by the handcuffs, is yanked downwards as well. The angel is forced to pull out a chair for himself too, lest he remain in his current awkward position- partially crouched down next to Dean, like someone extremely indecisive hesitating over whether to do an air squat or not.

Dean folds his arms and glares at Cas in steely disapproval. The Arctic force of his glare could have frozen Hell over. Cas looks steadily back at him. This continues for all of five minutes before Dean breaks.

“I don’t see why we had to leave immediately,” he whines, “You could at least have let me look at the Egyptian exhibit. I mean, dude. Mummies are cool.”

Cas shoots him an unamused look. “I’m pretty sure Sam meant for us to come straight back,” he tells Dean dryly, his voice prim, “Your punishment did not include ‘quick detour to look at half-decayed pagan relics’.” He sneers disdainfully.

“Don’t tell me you’re butthurt about the Egyptian gods,” Dean says, smirking nastily. “You gotta admit, Cas, mummies and pyramids are way more awesome than stone angels and crypts. Say what you will about the pagans, at least they’ve got _style_.” He clicks his tongue and leans back, pretending to whip out two finger guns to fire at Castiel as he flashes the angel his most taunting grin.

Cas glares at him with the air of someone who is so far above all of Dean’s petty attempts to goad him into a response that his head is practically breaking the stratosphere. They settle once more into stony silence.

It is about another five minutes before Cas mutters, “At least Christian theology doesn’t endorse the ritual sacrifice of retainers to serve nobility in the afterlife.”

Dean smirks. _Bingo._

He flashes Cas a cheery smile and tells the angel airily, “Whatever you say, feathers. Whatever you say.”

He gives himself a mental pat on the back as Castiel sighs in long-suffering exasperation.

They are off to a promising start.

\---

 

It is an hour after getting himself forcibly chained to Castiel that Dean decides that something must be done to rectify the situation.

His idiot brother is nowhere to be found. The stupid son of a bitch is probably in his room snoring his lazy ass off right now. Dean sighs. They’re unlikely to see any sign of him within the next six hours. Not that there is much point in appealing to Sam’s good sense these days anyway, because the bastard seems to have lost what little he already had.

But Cas… Cas is a different matter.

Cas has always been rather… _susceptible_ to Dean’s tricks. Dean can practically play him like a fiddle. Damn if some part of him doesn’t feel extra dirty for taking advantage of Castiel’s trusting and almost child-like nature, but Dean’s a demon now. Being a bit of a prick is pretty much expected of him. And Dean hates to disappoint.

Plus, the angel is right next to him, Dean notes with a smug smirk, and he is absolutely ripe for the picking.

Dean’s arsenal of annoyances may be limited now that he has been cut off from the majority of his demonic powers, but never let be said that Dean Winchester is not a resourceful man. He can be plenty annoying just using the traditional human methods. Dean has always known how to make the most of a bad situation.

Blithely unaware of Dean’s scheming thoughts, Cas is flipping his way through some ridiculously thick book about angels, eyes skimming the pages with uncanny speed. His brows are furrowed in concentration, and the tip of his tongue is peeking out from the corner of his mouth. He takes the phrase ‘sitting duck’ to a whole new level.

Looking at him, Dean abruptly feels an unwelcome pang of guilt, but he squashes it down mercilessly.

 _Damn it, Dean,_ he tells himself, _you’re supposed to be a Knight of Hell. Are you gonna roll over and ask for a belly rub just because the angel looks like the world’s most adorable baby duckling? Man up!_

He sidles closer to Cas.

“Cassss,” he whispers into the angel’s ear.

Castiel jerks and his eyes fly from the page to meet Dean’s gaze. “Dean,” he says dryly, “I thought you were sulking. Weren’t you giving me the- what do humans call it? Ah, yes. The--“ he twitches his fingers to form air quotes, “-- ‘ _silent treatment’_?”

Dean smiles sunnily at him. “I changed my mind,” he declares.

Cas gives him an unamused look.

“C’mon, Cas, get these cuffs off,” Dean wheedles. He flashes Castiel his most winsome smile. “I know you don’t need the key to open them. Don’t you think they’re annoying too?” He tugs at the cuffs, jerking Castiel’s hand about to demonstrate his point.

Castiel shoots him an unimpressed glare and yanks his hand back towards himself. “And why would I do that?” he asks tartly.

“Because it’s a stupid punishment? C’mon, Cas. Why are you letting Sam order you around like a dog? You’re not his personal angelic minion.”

Cas gives him a prim look and declares, “I am nobody’s ‘personal angelic minion’, Dean. I defer to Sam’s judgment in this area because he is your brother, and ultimately, he only wishes to help you.” His next words are in an undertone, “Although his measures do leave something to be desired…”

Dean pounces on that show of weakness like a leopard going in for the kill. “See, Cas,” he says, “Even you think Sam’s being stupid.” He gives their cuffed hands a shake, making the metal rattle. “Let’s take ‘em off.”

“No,” Cas says staunchly, “Stop trying to persuade me to take the handcuffs off. It’s never going to happen.”

He turns back to his book, an implacable expression on his face. The stoic cast to his features would have put statues to shame.

“Caaas,” Dean wheedles, “Sam doesn’t even have to know. We can take ‘em off when he’s not around, and put them back on later.”

“Stop trying to tempt me,” Cas says as he reads his book, not even bothering to look at Dean. “I will not change my mind.”

Dean seethes, glaring at Cas in silence. Cas blithely ignores him.

So now the angel decides to be a paragon of incorruptible virtue? He was perfectly happy to let Dean steal some pies just the other week. The feathered hypocrite.

It looks like Dean’s going to have to do this the hard way.

 

\----

 

It is two hours after Dean is first handcuffed to the angel that Castiel gets his first taste of Dean’s campaign of attrition by annoyance.

He looks up from his book, startled, as there is a faint clicking noise and bright light flashes before his eyes. Blinking, he turns around to glare at Dean accusingly.

“What did you do, Dean?” he says, voice dangerous.

Dean whistles innocently. “I was bored,” he declared, and he turns his phone around to show Castiel the picture he had just taken. “So I took a selfie.”

On the screen, Castiel is staring into the camera grumpily, as Dean does a little V-sign over his shoulder. Dean’s eyes are pure black and he is smirking happily.

Cas gives him a thoroughly unimpressed look and says, “Ah, yes, the human practice of taking vanity pictures of yourself from various ridiculous angles and positions.” He snorts disdainfully before muttering grouchily, “Whatever floats your boat. Now stop disturbing me.” He turns back to his book.

Dean loops his cuffed hand around Castiel’s front to pull the startled angel towards him. “Do the duckface!” he declares as he quickly snaps a photo of the two of them. He flips the phone around to look at the finished product. Castiel is staring into the screen in shock, looking like he is about to shit a brick.

Dean pouts unhappily. “This one’s terrible. I’m not even looking at the camera. Let’s take another one!”

“This is ridiculous,” Cas says irritably, “Stop trying to annoy me, Dean. I’m not going to let you out of the cuffs. Not now, not ever.”

Dean continues snapping pictures of him, but Castiel does not react. Instead, he raises his book to his face to shield himself from the camera and bats Dean’s hand away every time Dean tries to sneak the phone behind the book to get a shot of his face.

Grinning, Dean leans back in his chair and says conversationally as he flicks through his new collection of Castiel photos, “Do you think I should Instagram these? I’m trying to think of a caption. I want it to be witty. I’m thinking… ‘Baby’s First Selfie’. Or would you prefer ‘Nerdy Accountant Looking for Good Time’? I’ll let you decide,” he says and flashes Castiel a generous smile.

Dean’s phone buzzes and the screen fizzles out in a sad shower of sparks.

Dean pouts. “You’re such a wet blanket, Cas.” He looks morosely down at his dead phone. “Now you owe me a new phone.”

 

\---

 

Three hours after they were forcibly cuffed together, Castiel turns to Dean and says, in a voice that would have made archangels cower and lesser demons run straight for the hills, “Dean. If you say ‘ _who wears Cheetah_?’ or ‘ _but first, let me take a selfie_ ’ one more time, I swear I’m going to duct tape your mouth shut.”

Dean sticks his tongue out at Castiel. He is lying on the floor, having grown bored of sitting next to Cas as the angel read his stupid thick book.

“I’m so boreeeed,” he whines, “Can we go get some pie, Cas? Pleaseeeee?”

Castiel shoots him a dirty glare, and does not respond.

“Pieeeeeeeeee,” Dean says and he rolls around on the floor, yanking Castiel’s hand with him as he rocks back and forth. “Pie. Pieee. Pieeeeeee.”

Castiel gives a long-suffering sigh and says, “Repeating the word ‘pie’ will not make pie miraculously appear in front of you, Dean. I thought this was something most humans learned after they turned five.”

Dean gives him a betrayed look and declares in a wounded tone, “Pieeeeeeeeee.” Castiel rolls his eyes.

Dean sulks. _This is going terribly._

 

\---

 

About four hours since Dean and Cas were handcuffed together, they engage in an impromptu tug of war courtesy of the handcuffs.

 

“Dean, stop trying to walk the other way just to piss me off,” Castiel says angrily. “I know you don’t really want to go to the kitchen.”

“How do you know that?” Dean says rebelliously. “Maybe I really want a beer!” he insists, voice indignant.

Castiel snorts and gives him an unimpressed look that says exactly how much he believes Dean.

“Well, I want to get a book,” he declares, and starts walking towards the archives. Dean resists, digging his heels in. He ends up sliding forward a few feet before Cas turns around and glowers at him.

“Dean, I will haul you bodily to the archives if I have to,” he warns.

Dean responds by breaking into a run towards the kitchen, dragging a startled Cas along with him. However, Dean only manages to get five feet in the direction of the kitchen before Castiel recovers from his shock and begins straining in the other direction.

“Stop doing that!” Castiel hisses as he struggles to pull Dean in the direction of the archives.

“You stop it!” Dean retorts, and he throws his whole weight forward as he strains to pull Castiel backwards. His arm muscles feel as though they’re on fire.

“Stop being contrary for the sake of being contrary, Dean!” Castiel grits out in between harsh pants. From the strain in his voice, Dean notes with vindictive gladness, it is obvious that he is in as much agony as Dean is.

Dean grunts and with a huge surge of effort, manages to drag Castiel two steps backwards.

“Hah!” he cries in victory, and he turns around to smirk mockingly at Cas. He grabs the handcuff chains with both hands and yanks, throwing his weight backwards and putting all his strength into pulling Castiel back towards him.

Dean only realizes how bad a move this is when Castiel flashes him a small, devious smile and lets the chain go slack. Dean only gets a moment to process his shock, his mouth flying open comically, before there is an intense sensation of vertigo and he goes plummeting backwards. He hits the ground with an audible thump, all the breath knocked out of him. But his agony is not at an end.

A moment later, Castiel lands on top of him, and it feels like getting hit by a semi-truck.

Dean sees stars.

Jimmy Novak is by no means a light man, and becoming a human cushion for Castiel’s vessel is definitely not one of Dean’s best experiences. Too stunned to move, Dean lays back on the ground. His back hurts like a bitch and Castiel is a heavy, crushing weight on his chest. Having a steel cabinet fall on him would have been kinder.

Wincing in pain, Dean cracks an eye open warily, and finds himself looking straight into Castiel’s deep blue eyes. Their faces are less than an inch apart. Dean’s eyes go wide with shock, his face flushing.

“Cas!” he gasps, “Get off me!”

Cas stares at him dazedly and blinks in confusion. He looks utterly winded. He is still panting heavily from the earlier physical exertion, and his hot breath washes over Dean’s skin. It is pure torture.

Dean is absolutely mortified.

“Personal space, Cas! Seriously!” he cries, voice strangled, and tries to push Castiel off him. It takes a few tries before he is able to roll the heavy angel off him, and Dean’s face is burning so much by that time that he thinks he must be glowing scarlet. Cas falls to the ground with a startled ‘oof’ and turns to glower at Dean as he slowly straightens himself up.

Dean sits in the ground, still panting, refusing to meet his eyes. He ignores the hand that Cas extends to him, and pushes himself into an upright position with a pained groan.

“I trust you won’t be trying that again, Dean,” Cas tells him, stone-faced, but there is the slightest hint of a smirk in his voice.

Dean glares at him through lidded eyes. “Hasn’t anyone told you it’s rude to gloat?” he snaps out bitingly. Castiel just smiles and tugs him forward by the cuffs.

He remains in sullen silence as he follows Castiel towards the archives.

This campaign of annoying Cas into freeing him is backfiring pretty spectacularly.

 

\---

 

When Sam wakes up, he is nursing the world’s worst hangover. It feels like a herd of elephants are tap-dancing on his skull, accompanied by a troupe of hippos breakdancing their way across his brow line. Sam groans wretchedly into his pillow, and tries to remember what happened.

 _Oh, right_. He had downed another half-bottle of scotch… after he handcuffed his brother to the angel, and hid the key.

Sam moans. In the light of day, he is beginning to have some serious doubts about the wisdom of his actions. He hopes he will not exit his room to find Cas and his brother lying dead on the floor, having murdered each other sometime during the night.

It takes a great force of will to drag himself out of bed, and an even greater force of will to make himself go through the motions of preparing himself for the day ahead. But after brushing his teeth, taking a shower and gulping down rather more aspirin than is strictly sanctioned by conventional medical standards, Sam feels vaguely human again. It is a minor miracle.

He slowly walks out of his room and shuffles his way to the kitchen to grab himself some coffee.

He is almost at the kitchen when the sounds of furious struggling and the all too familiar low rumble of Dean cursing reach his ears. _Oh shit,_ Sam thinks.

He forces himself to break into a run despite the pounding in his head and the pulsing flashes of light that strobe disturbingly across his vision in time with his heavy footfalls. He rushes to a startled halt in front of the entrance to one of the Men of Letters storage rooms, and the sight that greets his eyes makes him wonder vaguely if he is still dreaming.

Stuck in the narrow doorway are Dean and Castiel. They are squished together like a pair of especially unhappy sardines. It is obvious that they both tried to go through the doorway at the same time, but got caught in the abnormally narrow entrance.

They are both pushing at one another angrily, each trying to be the first one to struggle out from their uncomfortable position. Dean is especially enthusiastic, making full use of his elbow to push Castiel’s face into the doorframe as he wriggles forward, muttering a slow stream of increasingly vulgar profanities under his breath.

“I told you you should have let me go in first,” Castiel is lecturing Dean, though the sound is somewhat muffled from his face being pressed into the wood. “It was obvious folly for both of us to try to enter at the same time. But did you listen to me? No, of course the great Dean Winchester knows best-”

“Shut your piehole, you sanctimonious son of a bitch. Turn sideways,” Dean instructs in a growl as he struggles forward. “And try to suck in your stomach a little,” he adds nastily.

“This is in no way my fault, Dean,” Castiel replies primly. “If anything, you’re the one to blame. My vessel is at least ten pounds lighter than yours.” Sam cannot see the expression on his face, but he can definitely hear the glare in Castiel’s voice as he declares cattily, “Perhaps you should not have eaten so many pies last Tuesday.”

Dean snarls viciously and ‘accidentally’ shoves Castiel’s face harder into the doorframe as the angel yelps. “Screw you,” he bites out, “You ate just as many pies as me, douchebag. And I’ll have you know most of my weight is muscle. Unlike you, I actually work out.”

Grunting, he throws himself forward, and with that final valiant push, he manages to squeeze himself out from the doorway, the force of his momentum driving him to his hands and knees. Castiel comes crashing into him a moment later, dragged forward by the handcuff chains, and they both go tumbling headfirst into the steel storage shelf in front of them with a ringing clang.

The shelf teeters back and forth ominously and Sam watches in horror as it tilts backwards slowly, looming ponderously over the still entangled forms of Dean and Castiel. Dean is slowly levering himself up with one hand, glaring daggers at Castiel, who is lying face-first on the ground, groaning. Both of them appear blithely unaware of the danger they are in.

“Son of a—" Dean mutters angrily at the same time when Sam opens his mouth to shout, “Dean, look ou—" but neither of them get to complete their sentences.

With a great groaning noise, the steel shelf topples backwards onto the two stunned men beneath it.

Sam winces and takes an unconscious step backward as there is a thunderous screech of metal followed by a resounding crash. Boxes of files and other miscellaneous objects shower down all around the doorway like an avalanche. A lone sheet of yellowed parchment flutters down sadly near Sam’s feet.

 _Demonic Activities and Omens- A Guide to the Identification and Defeat of These Cursed, Malevolent Spirits of Evil_ , the title says.

There is nothing but ringing silence and a rising cloud of dust that makes Sam’s nose itch. Sam waits with bated breath, his heart pounding.

“Dean?” he tries, “Are you okay? Dean!”

There is still nothing but silence.

Sam’s pulse races and he feels faintly lightheaded with fear as he takes a step forward. “Cas? You still there?”

There is no reply. Sam is about to open his mouth to cry out again when he hears a faint noise coming from beneath the collapsed shelving and the mountain of files and boxes. It sounds like someone coughing.

“…Bitch,” Dean finally finishes with a strangled groan.

 

\---

 

As Dean sits down grumpily at the kitchen table, holding an icepack to his head, and giving Cas the most epic Winchester bitchface™, Sam thinks, _Thank God he’s already dead, because that would surely have killed him._

For the first time in his life, Sam finds himself insanely thankful that his brother is a demon. It is an extremely uncomfortable feeling. He feels vaguely unclean.

Cas is looking at Dean apologetically, his blue eyes large with concern. “Dean. Let me heal you,” he says gently.

Dean gives him a glare of unmistakable disgust.

“Keep your hands off me. I don’t want your bad angel juju,” he tells Castiel, shifting away with a pointed glare as Cas attempts to put a hand to his forehead.

“Dean, while the handcuffs are on, you don’t have the ability to heal from major wounds on your own power,” Cas replies patiently, hand still outstretched. “You must allow me to heal you.”

“No thanks,” Dean says emphatically, eyeing Castiel’s hand warily as if it was a poisonous snake coiling to strike.

Cas looks him dead in the eye. “Dean. You have two broken ribs, a punctured lung and you have suffered hairline fractures to your skull as well as various soft tissue injuries. You are in obvious pain. Let me help you.”

“I’ve had worse,” Dean grunts, and adds in a sullen undertone, “Anyway, it’s not like it’ll kill me or anything. This-” he waves a hand at himself, “- is all just a meatsuit now, isn’t it?”

Sam finds the look of concerned bafflement on his own face mirrored on Castiel’s.

“Dean, why won’t you let Cas heal you?” Sam asks. “He’s done it plenty of times before when you were still human. How is this any different now?”

“I promise not to harm you, Dean,” Castiel tells Dean solemnly. “Please stop being unreasonable and let me heal you,” he adds in gentle reproach.

Dean snarls and flinches away as Castiel reaches out a hand again. Frowning, Castiel stares at Dean with perplexed hurt.

“Seriously, man, this is the first time I’ve seen you refuse healing,” Sam says to Dean. “Is this some kind of weird demon thing?”

Dean doesn’t reply and throws him a glare that lacks most of its usual force, and if that isn’t a telling sign of something wrong, Sam doesn’t know what is.

Worry grips Sam. “Dean, what’s the matter?” he asks, as he instinctively steps forward to move closer to Dean, one hand outstretched to grasp Dean’s shoulder.

Dean backs away hastily, hands held palm out towards Sam as he glares defensively. “Alright, alright, I’ll let the damn angel heal me, okay? Sheesh.”

He glares at Sam and Cas with a great air of reluctance, but does not move as Castiel reaches out again. Instead, he shuts his eyes, mouth thin with an expression of obvious distaste as he gingerly allows Castiel to place two fingers on his forehead.

Dean’s wounds disappear at the same instant his eyes fly open with a gasp. He looks uncomfortably at Cas, posture stiff with unease. For a moment, some strange emotion flashes through his eyes, something almost like guilt or fear or shame- maybe even regret- before his expression shutters, and he hastily backs away so that Castiel’s fingers are no longer in contact with his forehead. Castiel just stares at him worriedly, brows furrowed in confusion, and Sam finds himself mimicking the angel’s expression.

 _What was that about?_ he wonders.

Dean is backed away as far from Castiel as the handcuff chains will allow, his arms crossed, a surly, bad-tempered expression on his face. Castiel stares at him, and his look of bafflement slowly morphs into one of hurt. The wounded look in his eyes should have been weaponized. It would have toppled dictatorships and averted wars. It would probably have made even the Devil cry.

However, Dean remains staunchly unaffected. He just glares at Castiel, as if daring the angel to respond.

 _Maybe demons really don’t like being healed by angels_ , Sam thinks to himself, _Maybe it’s some kinda dog-cat thing, mortal enemies, ice and fire, light and dark, evil cannot tolerate the touch of good, etcetera, etcetera._

It will probably remain a mystery for the foreseeable future though. Dean doesn’t look like he is particularly keen on sharing, and it isn’t as if Sam knows any other demons he can just call up and ask. What would he say anyway? _Hey Crowley, is it true that when demons get healed by angels, it feels like they’re being bad touched? Cos that sure looked like what was happening from the expression on my brother’s face._

That would be one hell of an awkward phone conversation.

Dean breaks the uncomfortable silence that has descended with a sullen mutter, “So, Cas, you still wanna find your stupid book or what?”

Cas startles, as if he had just remembered the aforementioned book. “Ah yes, I guess we should go retrieve it,” he says guiltily.

Dean grunts, and gestures towards the doorway, sinking into a low sarcastic bow as he says dryly, “After you, Cas. We don’t want to get caught in any doorways again, do we?”

Cas throws him a half-hearted glare before leading the way out, Dean following after him grumpily like a particularly ill-tempered puppy trotting after its master. Sam shakes his head, unsure what to make of all of this.

 _At least no one died, I guess?_ he thinks to himself, and it’s sad how comforting he finds that thought.

 

\---

 

Having learned his lesson about leaving Dean and Cas alone for too long a period of time, Sam decides to check on the handcuffed duo after about an hour has passed.

Following the sound of voices, he finds them in Dean’s room. Cas is sitting on the bed, back against the headboard as he flips through an old, leather-bound book. Lying beside him, looking supremely bored, is Dean.

Pausing just outside the doorway, Sam watches as Dean swats at the air in front of Castiel’s face.

“Caaaas,” he whines, “Why are you still reading? C’mon. Stop reading. I’m bored.”

At least Dean seems to be back to normal now, if the fact that he’s behaving like an especially spoiled five year old again is any indication.

“Shush, Dean,” Castiel says irritably, his eyes never leaving the book, “You were the one who said you wanted to sleep. So go to sleep.”

Dean pouts.

“Caaaas, Cas, Caaaaas,” he says, “Caaaaaaaas.”

Cas throws Dean a dirty look. “Dean, stop this incessant whining.”

Dean sniffs disdainfully. “I am not _whining._ I do not _whine_ ,” he says and subsides into sullen silence.

Sam shakes his head in wry amusement, and is about to leave, satisfied that all is once again well, when suddenly, Dean starts singing.

“ _Baby, baby, baby, oooh_ ,” Dean croons, “ _Like baby, baby, baby noooo_. _Like baby, baby, baby, oooooh. Thought you’d always be mine, mineeeee_.”

Sam rolls his eyes. Justin Bieber. Of course.

Cas throws him a glare. “Dean,” he says warningly, “You may have a nice singing voice, but this is starting to get annoying.”

Dean smirks, and switches songs. “ _Oh, baby, baby, how was I supposed to know?”_ he sings, _“That something wasn’t right here -_ ”

Castiel’s glare is absolutely scathing. “If this is another one of your jokes about my resemblance to a human infant, I must say it’s getting very old.”

Smiling, Dean sings sweetly, “ _My loneliness is killing me, and I- I must confess, I still believe. When I’m not with you, I lose my mind_.”

Castiel grits his teeth and bites out, “Dean, if you don’t stop singing this instant, I swear I will punch you.”

Dean sings even louder, “ _Give me a sign! Hit me, baby, one more time!_ ”

Cas closes his eyes and puts his book down to clamp his hands over his ears. “I’m just going to ignore you until you stop this, Dean,” he declares, eyes squeezed shut.

Dean grins and sings, eyes alight with impish mischief, “ _You and me, baby, ain’t nothing but mammals. So let’s do it like they do on the Discovery Channel_.”

Castiel’s eyes shoot open and he glares at Dean in outrage, his jaw dropping.

 _Wow_ , Sam thinks to himself. _He actually got that reference. Our little Castiel is all grown up._

Dean smiles at him brightly and croons, “ _Open your eyes. I see. Your eyes are open_.”

Castiel gives him a death glare. “Dean, shut up.”

“ _Alwaaaays, I wanna be with you, and make believe with you, and live in harmony, harmony, oh love!_ ”

If looks could kill, Dean would be a pile of smoldering ash right now. “I am starting to get angry, Dean,” Castiel hisses.

Dean just smirks back happily and takes a deep breath before launching into song again. “ _Let it go, let it goooo_ -“

Cas clamps a hand over Dean’s mouth.

“Mmmmph, mmmph,” Dean says angrily.

Castiel leans in close, eyes narrowed dangerously. “Dean, if I hear another peep out of you in the next hour, I am taking your voice away.”

He releases Dean, who glares at him unhappily. “You wouldn’t,” he mutters sullenly.

Castiel picks his book up and arches an eyebrow. “Would you like to test that?”

Dean pouts and flops down to the bed.

Castiel continues to flip through his book as Dean watches him, frowning in annoyance. Then, a mischievous gleam comes into his eyes. Quick as a snake, his finger shoots out to jab Castiel in the side as he smirks impishly.

To Dean’s obvious consternation, Castiel does not even react. Frowning, Dean jabs him harder.

Castiel gives no sign of noticing. Casually, he flips another page.

Dean is glaring at Castiel as if the angel’s lack of reaction personally offends him. Incensed, he pokes Castiel in the stomach a few more times. However, Cas just stares down at his book as if it is the most absorbing thing in the universe. His face, blank with concentration, might as well be carved out of stone for all the reaction he is showing.

Furious at being ignored, Dean decides to up the ante. He jabs at Castiel’s cheek, pushing at the angel’s unsmiling face with his finger as if he could prod it into showing an expression by poking it enough times.

“Dean, kindly remove your finger from my face,” Castiel tells Dean, voice deadpan. There is a stormy expression of suppressed rage on his face.

Dean smiles in delight, and prods at Castiel’s cheek even more.

Castiel gives him a withering glare. “Poking me accomplishes nothing, Dean. I am an Angel of the Lord. I am not affected by your petty attempts to distract me.”

Dean smirks and says, “Oh really?”

He pokes at Castiel’s cheek again.

_Poke._

_Poke._

_Poke._

Castiel’s eye twitches.

_Poke._

Castiel’s uncuffed hand flashes out to grab Dean’s finger before it can touch his face. Glaring, he turns to face Dean, who is smiling at him radiantly, the picture of innocence. ‘ _What_?’ his smile seems to say.

Castiel looks at him, unamused.

Sam certainly does not expect what comes next.

With his cuffed hand, Cas grabs Dean around the middle and holds him still as he reaches out with his other hand to tickle Dean under the armpits.

“Ahhh, stop it! Stop it!” Dean yells, twisting away from Cas while laughing uncontrollably. He attempts to scramble off the bed, but Cas yanks him back by the handcuffs. He plants himself on top of Dean’s chest and starts tickling Dean under both armpits as Dean squirms around in helpless laughter. “Noooo, stop it!” he screams.

But Dean’s pleas fall on deaf ears. Castiel is merciless. He continues tickling until Dean is howling in laughter, tears seeping from his eyes, too busy laughing to fight back. Cas smirks triumphantly and says, “Do you submit?”

Still shaking helplessly with laughter, Dean gasps, “I submit, I submit,” and Cas finally releases him.

“Oh my god,” Dean says, panting breathlessly as he lies back against the mattress limply. “You’re such a _bastard_ ,” he declares emphatically as he looks up at Cas, but his voice is fond.

Castiel smiles back. “I learned from the best,” he says, and there is a corresponding warmth in his voice.

Then, Castiel’s eyes lift upwards, and his gaze falls upon on Sam, standing in the doorway and staring incredulously at them.

His eyes go wide, and he scrambles off Dean, face flushing. “Sam,” he says. “We were just-“

Sam quirks an eyebrow at him and says dryly, “Having a tickle fight. Yes, I saw.”

Dean raises himself up by an elbow and glares at Sam. “Oh look, it’s the fun police,” he says. “You come to bust up the party?” He sneers derisively. “What? Are tickle fights illegal now?”

Sam ignores him. “Good job winning the tickle fight, Cas,” he tells the angel pleasantly, “Dean and I used to have them when we were younger. He also always lost then.” He flashes Dean a smug grin and tells Castiel in a stage whisper, “Here’s a tip for next time- he’s extremely ticklish on the soles of his feet. It absolutely _kills_ him when you go for the toes.”

Dean gives him a dirty look. “I should’ve tickled you more as a child,” he bites out. “You obviously haven’t _suffered enough_.”

Smiling sunnily, Sam walks off, chuckling to himself at the look on Dean’s face.

It is strangely reassuring to know that even as a Knight of Hell, Dean can still be downed by a tickle fight. It’s nice that some things, at least, do not change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those curious about the songs Dean sings, they are (in chronological order):  
> 1\. #Selfie- The Chainsmokers  
> 2\. Baby- Justin Bieber  
> 3\. Baby One More Time- Britney Spears  
> 4\. The Bad Touch- Bloodhound Gang  
> 5\. Always- Erasure (aka the Robot Unicorn Song)  
> 6\. Let it Go- Frozen


	8. Pie is Complicated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dean challenges Castiel to make pie like a human. It doesn’t go so well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M BACKKKKKK and here's a super long chapter to make up for my exam hiatus!
> 
> Thank you everyone for your kind comments and the well wishes about my exams. Even when I don’t reply, rest assured I’ve read every one of your comments, and as I do, I smile shyly to myself like Dean does when he thinks too much about Castiel -blushes- 
> 
> Also a big thank you to the wonderful carzla for betaing and for pointing out that I had made Sam sound quite un-American. It is because of her that poor Sam sounds significantly less like an alien. THANKS BABE xD

In the coming days, Sam finds the Bunker in a perplexing state of peace and harmony. Ever since the tickle fight incident, Dean has been strangely docile. He has been a model of good behavior, to the point that Sam suspects there must be some nefarious plan afoot. But even as he waits in trepidation, the other shoe never drops.

Sure, Dean’s incessant whining still echoes throughout the Bunker and Sam suspects that Castiel and he could both go a million years without hearing the word ‘pie’ again. But other than Dean’s constant moaning and bitching, he is scarily well-behaved, with none of his usual attempts to annoy the living hell out of everyone in his immediate vicinity. He hasn’t even tried to annoy Cas into freeing him in _days_.

Sam doesn’t know if he’s run out of ways to piss Castiel off or if he’s simply biding his time, waiting for the most opportune time to strike. The handcuffs have cut Dean off from most, if not all, of his demonic powers, largely reducing his capacity to pull any of his usual stunts. But that still does not quite explain why he didn’t do anything besides try to banish Castiel back when he was still uncuffed. It seems that Sam’s gut instinct was right: Dean is far less willing to go no-holds-barred when it comes to Castiel. It’s almost like he’s pulling his punches.

Dean has a soft spot for the angel that’s a mile-wide, and when Sam thinks about it, it’s really not all that surprising. This is, after all, the same man- well, celestial being in the shape of a man, if you want to be technical about it- who decided to give up an army for Dean. Heck, Castiel is practically president of the Dean Winchester fan club. It’s no wonder that Dean is a little leery of abusing the poor guy. Even demons must have a little twinge of conscience sometimes.

And as of right now, Dean seems to have decided to go with the attitude of ‘if you can’t beat them, join them’. He and Cas are thick as thieves these days.

Often the two of them can be found in Dean’s room, Castiel making his way book by book through the Men of Letters’ sizeable collection of angelic lore, while Dean lays on the bed, alternatively playing silly flash games on his computer and surfing YouTube, or pestering Castiel about getting some pie. His attempts at the latter have so far been rebuffed soundly by Cas, who merely has to waggle his fingers pointedly, while arching an eyebrow and announcing, “Don’t make me go for the toes,” before Dean’s whining abruptly cuts off. It does the trick every time. Sam’s never seen Dean shut up so fast. It’s pretty amazing.

He’s spotted them a few times in the library re-watching Dr. Sexy M.D on what must by now be their fifth all-nighter marathon of the stupid show. Castiel is always to be found staring at the laptop screen in unblinking, avid silence, while Dean alternates between grinning at him and grinning at the screen. Occasionally, he starts gushing over Dr. Sexy like a teenage girl, making Sam roll his eyes. And Dean keeps calling _him_ the girl? What a hypocrite.

The only notable speed bump on the Castiel-Dean bros-forever magic carpet ride happens one night when Sam is passing by Dean’s bedroom on his way to the toilet. Hearing voices and noticing that the door is slightly ajar, he gives in to curiosity and allows himself to take a quick peek. The sight that greets him makes him raise an eyebrow.

Castiel and Dean are sitting cross-legged on the bed, their faces inches apart, staring unblinkingly at each other. Castiel’s face is as cool and composed as usual, gravely solemn as he stares straight into Dean’s eyes. Dean is staring right back, gaze intent with furious focus, but his angry stare has nothing on Castiel’s stare. Castiel’s stare is filled with the weight of the ages. In it is the endless patience of a millennia-old creature who had watched the first amphibians taking their tentative steps out of the water, who had watched countless civilizations rise and fall. It is a stare that would continue on as planets burnt and stars exploded and the universe itself ended. It is a champion-class stare. Statues would probably lose against it in a staring contest. It’s no wonder Dean isn’t doing too well.

“Cas,” Dean says through gritted teeth as he stares angrily at the angel, “Stop staring at me.”

“I was merely looking at you. You’re the one who insisted on looking back at me,” is Castiel’s even reply.

“Well, I can’t do anything when you’re looking at me like this. So cut it out,” Dean says angrily.

“I don’t see why you are so perturbed, Dean. You told me not to watch you when you’re sleeping, but you’re not sleeping now.”

Dean’s face scrunches into a long-suffering grimace. “The principle is the same, Cas. I’ve told you this already. Like fifty times. You don’t stare at people like that. It’s creepy. Stop it.”

Castiel’s stare acquires a sharp edge to it. “You stop it.”

“No, you stop it.”

“You stop it first.”

“You—

Sam stops listening after that, because there’s only so much of Dean and Castiel’s silly squabbling that he can take. Rolling his eyes at their antics, he leaves.

Those two can be such children sometimes. He wouldn’t be surprised if they ended up staring at each other all through the night out of sheer pigheadedness.

But other than that minor incident of trouble in paradise, everything is peachy. The Bunker is in a state of idyllic peace and the most exciting thing to happen to Sam that week is when he accidentally squirts his bottle of Thousand Island dressing too hard and it ends up all over his jacket. Well that is- it _was_ the most exciting thing to happen all week until Dean decided it was a good idea to dare Castiel to try his hand at making pie— an enterprise that was perhaps doomed to failure right from its very start.

 

\---

 

Sam is walking past the kitchen when he spots Castiel and Dean standing together in front of the kitchen countertop. The area surrounding them looks as though a bomb made out of flour had just gone off. Everything within a five-foot radius of Castiel is covered in a layer of fine white powder, except for Dean, who has somehow managed to remain completely unscathed. Sam pauses in the doorway and stares in horrified fascination.

Cas is wearing an apron that might once have been bright pink, but which is now so deeply coated with flour that it’s nearly white. Sam can barely make out the words ‘Kiss the Cook’ that are printed on it in large cheery font. The rest of Castiel is not in a much better state. He has shucked off his ever-present trench coat and suit jacket, and the sleeves of his shirt are rolled up to the elbow, exposing arms that are covered in flour. His slacks, dusted all over with flour, are now closer in color to dark grey than black. Flour also coats his hair, and there is a spot of flour right on the tip of his nose that makes him look faintly ridiculous.

It is kind of pathetic, and also kind of adorable, in the same way that a tiny kitten which managed to get itself all tangled up in a ball of string and is rolling around mewing helplessly, is adorable. It’s also pretty funny, in a rather awful kind of way.

Dean seems to share Sam’s sentiment, because he is sniggering at Castiel, as the angel, hands deep in the dough, glares at him irritably.

Dean just smiles back cheerily and says, “You’ve got something on your nose,” before reaching out to brush at the white spot on Castiel’s nose. Castiel goes a little cross-eyed watching as Dean, smirking, dusts the flour off. He sneezes daintily as some of the flour gets into his nose, and Dean chuckles as Cas wrinkles his nose, glaring at him crossly.

It is disgustingly cutesy. If Sam didn’t know for a fact that the only things Dean’s sexually attracted to are women and pie- he’d have pegged the two of them as the leads of one of those cheesy romance flicks Dean claims to loathe so much. As it is, watching them makes Sam feel vaguely uncomfortable, like he’s spying on some couple being rather too free with the PDA. Sam is half-tempted to barge in and yell “NO HOMO” at the top of his lungs just to see the expression on Dean’s face.

But something stops him- maybe it is the way Dean is looking at Castiel, smiling crookedly, something tender in his eyes, and the way Cas looks back, his mouth twitching in a small, barely noticeable smile, but his eyes bright with laughter.

Sam just stays put in the doorway, a silent observer.

An old, uneasy suspicion rises up in him, but Sam squashes it down. _Surely- surely, it couldn’t be? I mean, Dean and Cas? Really? They’re just best friends. Right? ...Right._

Oblivious to Sam’s internal debate, Dean leans back against the counter and dusts his hands off. He declares with satisfaction, “There. All gone.”

Castiel sneezes again, and Dean smirks.

“Bless yourself,” he declares grandly, and proceeds to laugh uproariously while slapping his knees, as if he had made the world’s funniest joke. Castiel frowns at him, unamused.

Dean, eyes watering with tears of mirth, says, pausing every few seconds to stifle the laughter bubbling out of him, “It’s funny… see… ‘cause… you’re an..." He has to stop then, too overwhelmed by laughter to continue, and takes a few deep breaths to calm himself before he can speak again. Wiping a tear from his eye, he finally manages to gasp out, “…angel.”

He then bursts into truly obnoxious laughter as Cas scowls at him in blatant disgust. Dean obviously thinks he’s the world’s greatest comedian. It seems that becoming a demon has not improved Dean’s sense of humor a whit. If anything, he’s gotten even worse.

Still laughing, he pops himself up onto the kitchen countertop right next to Castiel’s current workspace, swinging his legs happily. He appears to have absolutely no concept of the hygiene standards that are acceptable in kitchens. As Sam watches in disgust, Dean, still chuckling quietly to himself, reaches out and swipes a finger through the chocolate filling that Cas has prepared for the pie. He then puts his finger into his mouth without a hint of shame and sucks at it thoughtfully.

“Not sweet enough,” he declares with a little frown, and he proceeds to launch into a lecture that is chock-full of unhelpful comments about what he thinks Cas should be doing instead.

Sam immediately feels sorry for Castiel. Dean has always been a born backseat driver. He’s an absolute _terror_. It is one reason why Sam doesn’t like to drive the Impala when Dean is around to see it, other than the chief reason that Dean hates it when anyone other than himself touches his precious baby.

But Dean’s incredibly unhelpful commentary aside, Castiel himself isn’t doing too good. It is apparent that even without Dean’s insufferable attempts at backseat driving, the angel is a one-man pie-making disaster. For a supernatural being with a supposedly innate understanding of the laws of the physical universe, all Castiel’s attempts at reshaping the particular part of the physical universe that is currently instantiated in the form of ‘ingredients for pie’ into the desired physical state of ‘something resembling pie’ are failing miserably.

As Dean chatters on, the angel glares at the misshapen lump in front of him as if he could will it into something closer in nature to edible pastry through the sheer force of his fury. Potent though Castiel’s anger obviously is, the universe apparently has other ideas, because Castiel’s attempt at pie remains sadly as it is.

Castiel sighs deeply. “You sure I can’t just—” He waggles his fingers meaningfully, looking at Dean with a hopeful little smile.

Dean gives him a scandalized look. “No _cheating_. The point of this challenge is that you make the pie _without_ materializing it from thin air.”

Cas throws him a pleading glance that makes his resemblance to a small fluffy baby animal even more pronounced. “But, Dean-”

“Nuh-uh,” Dean says, “Who was the one who said ‘challenge accepted’ when I said you couldn’t bake a pie like a human? Remember your promise? No powers for the day. You gonna go back on your word, feathers?”

Cas droops. “But…” he says, voice mournful.

“Suck it up, Cas,” Dean declares. He flashes Castiel a contemptuous look. “Now, aren’t you a regular pillar of integrity? You’re willing to break your promise but you won’t let me out of the cuffs? What kind of role model are you?”

Cas frowns unhappily at him. “Those are two entirely different things,” he mutters sullenly, “This is a ridiculous restriction, Dean. If I could use my powers…”

Dean snorts. “Oh yeah? Now you know how I feel. Payback’s a bitch, isn’t it?” He flashes the angel a taunting smile. Castiel huffs in annoyance and turns his attention back to the pie.

“Fine,” he grits out unhappily, “I will do this the _human_ way.”

Frowning deeply at the recipe book in front of him, Cas pats the dough in front of him, and mumbles to himself, “Maybe I should add some water? The recipe doesn’t say I need to, but I think the dough’s a little too hard right now.” He picks up the wad of dough, rolling it around in his hands before dropping it back onto the kitchen countertop and it doesn’t so much ooze as fall down with a hard rock-like thump.

To Sam’s disbelief, he proceeds to pour an entire cup of water on it.

Dean gives Castiel a look of dismayed horror that probably mirrors the one on Sam’s face, and says, “Cas. Why did you just add a cup of water to the pie dough?”

Cas gives him an annoyed glare and says, “It was too hard. Obviously.”

He ignores all of Dean’s ensuing moaning about how he is ‘disrespecting the ancient art of pie-crafting’, and staunchly soldiers on, occasionally referring to the recipe book, but mostly making things up out of his ass. It is like watching a train wreck in slow motion.

Dean looks as though he is about to explode. Or alternatively, burst into big fat angry tears.

“This is _not_ how you make pie,” he declares loudly.

Cas scowls at him. “Well, I don’t see _you_ helping.”

“My relationship with pies is on the receiving end only,” Dean declares haughtily, leaning back with his arms crossed. “Besides, I’m not helping you win the challenge I set you. You gotta do it by yourself.”

Castiel rolls his eyes and continues bashing at the dough with his rolling pin. Sam is no expert on making pies, but he’s pretty sure that’s not how pies are supposed to work.

This cannot end well.

Unable to bring himself to watch the disaster unfolding before him any longer, Sam makes himself walk away from the kitchen. However, he returns in about a quarter of an hour after the smell of something burning reaches his nostrils. He finds Cas and Dean standing side-by-side in front of the oven, their silhouettes only faintly visible through the cloud of smoke that is billowing out from within it. Cas has a fire extinguisher in his hands, which he is spraying industriously at the insides of the oven. Flames are licking out of the oven, undeterred by Castiel’s efforts. Sam stares in horror, his mouth dropping open.

“I told you to keep a closer watch on the oven,” Dean is saying, “But no, you wanted to concentrate on making the filling. Now look what’s happened. The oven’s on fire.”

Looking at the leaping flames, Sam thinks to himself that very soon, the oven may not be the only thing that is on fire. To think that the Bunker, painstakingly warded against practically every supernatural threat ever to exist, might be destroyed from within by a kitchen fire caused by an angel’s pie-baking mishaps. The Men of Letters are probably spinning in their graves right now.

Castiel, still aiming the fire extinguisher at the oven like a deadly weapon, turns to give Dean a vicious glare. “A little help maybe, Dean?”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Oh, give me that.” He snatches the fire extinguisher from Castiel’s hands and begins spraying furiously at the oven. Within minutes, the flames are going out and the pall of smoke around the oven is lessening.

“How is it that you can kill scores of angels and demons without breaking a sweat and yet screw up pie so badly you set the oven on fire? And then you screw up putting out the fire?” Dean says to Castiel as he works. He shakes his head in amused exasperation, and there is a hint of fondness in his voice as he says, “You’re so weird, dude.”

“I am not weird,” Castiel protests, glaring indignantly, but his voice is tinged with embarrassment.

The last of the flames go out, and Dean straightens up.

“Yes, you are,” Dean tells him. Smiling somewhat patronizingly, he raises a finger to point at Castiel. “You are a weird, dorky little guy, who can’t even make a simple chocolate pie.”

Cas scowls. “I’d like to see you try,” he bites out sullenly. The handcuff chains rattle as he brusquely crosses his arms over his chest.

Sam rolls his eyes at the silly antics of his brother and the angel. He wonders if the two of them know that their arguments are practically in iambic pentameter now. Maybe it comes from long practice.

Dean just grins back at Castiel smugly. “I told you, Cas. My relationship with pie is one-way only. It’s simple. Pie appears. I eat it.”

Cas huffs in exasperation and turns away from Dean to stare grumpily at the inside of the oven. His eyes are fixed on a sad burnt mess of charcoal that possibly was once the beginnings of a pie.

Dean watches the angel amusedly, but then his gaze flicks down at the fire extinguisher in his hand and a mischievous glint comes into his eyes.

“Hey, Cas,” he calls out cheerfully, rattling the handcuffs to get the angel’s attention. Castiel turns to look at him with a flinty-eyed glare and is promptly sprayed straight in the face with the fire extinguisher. Spluttering, he backs away, swiping at his eyes. He hits the kitchen countertop with a loud bang, elbow knocking into the mess of bowls and baking implements that are cluttered on the countertop. The objects go flying, and the bowl of chocolate filling that Cas had so painstakingly whipped up goes sailing through the air.

Almost in slow motion, Sam sees the brown liquid slop out of the bowl. It flies through the air before coming to an abrupt halt as it meets Dean’s face with a wet splatter. The next moment, the metal bowl hits his chest and bounces off to fall to the ground at his feet with a tinny clang.

Chocolate filling dribbles down Dean’s startled features as he gapes in shocked dismay. His entire face is brown, and it looks as though he just got his head dunked in a mud pool. As Sam watches, the baffled shock on his face is replaced by growing irritation.

Leaning back against the countertop, Castiel bursts into surprised laughter as he catches sight of Dean’s face. “Comeuppance is _sweet_ , Dean,” he declares with a sly twist of his lips. “How does it feel to get your just ‘ _desserts’_?”

“Oh my god, that was just terrible!” Dean cries, and he grabs a handful of flour to hurl at Castiel’s face. “You are so going down!”

As Sam watches in disbelief, his brother and the angel proceed to engage in a food fight like two feuding five year olds. Both sides batter each other with whatever baking ingredients they can get their hands on. Flour is flying everywhere and the floor is soon slick with chocolate. A pie tray lined with watery dough is smashed into Castiel’s face, and in retaliation the furious angel picks up a handful of eggs which he then hurls at Dean’s head, leaving Dean with bits of eggshell in his hair and raw egg dripping down his face.

In a matter of minutes, the Bunker kitchen has been transformed into a disaster zone. There is flour and chocolate and cream everywhere, like the kitchen was the site of an extremely localized hurricane. The two combatants themselves are stained head to toe. Panting, they glare at each other, faces caked with some ungodly mixture of pie dough, vanilla cream and chocolate sludge. They have stopped throwing things at each other, not out of any kind of truce, but simply because they have run out of things to throw, not surprising given that all of Castiel’s carefully prepared baking ingredients are now decorating every square inch of the kitchen.

Castiel stares woefully down at his chocolate and flour-covered hands. “I can’t believe we just did that,” he says regretfully, “This is such a waste of food.”

He dips a finger into some of the cream that got splattered on his chest, and licks at it slowly as Dean watches in horrified fascination.

Sam clears his throat, and the two flour-covered heads whip around to stare at him so fast that some of the brown sludgy mixture on them goes flying. Sam raises his hands to shield his face.

“I hope you two are planning to clean this mess up,” he tells them pointedly. Cas hangs his head shamefacedly, but Dean merely flashes Sam a cheeky grin and attempts to lob a bit of the gunk on his hands at Sam. But Sam is way ahead of him. He ducks to one side as the doughy missile goes sailing past, and smiles jauntily at the cheated look on Dean’s face.

“When I come back in an hour, I expect to see the kitchen sparkling clean,” he informs them and hastily moves out of range before Dean gets it into his mind to try again.

 

\---

 

Dean glares balefully at the washcloth in his hands. “This is stupid,” he declares, “Why can’t you just work a miracle and make this all go away?”

Castiel turns back to look at him from where he is wringing a mop over a pail of water. “I recall one of the terms of your challenge was ‘no using any of your powers for the rest of the day’. As you said earlier, Dean, ‘no cheating’,” he tells Dean primly, and there is the tiniest hint of a smirk on his face.

Dean fumes. Trust the angel to actually be amused by this turn of events. He is obviously relishing making Dean eat his own words. For a celestial being of light and good, Cas can be incredibly petty at times. It’s not even like Dean’s the only one who has to roll up his sleeves and clean up the damn kitchen the old fashioned human way. Cas is not doing himself any favors by refusing to use his powers. Sometimes, Dean suspects that Castiel is secretly a masochist. It would certainly explain a lot of things.

Dean glares at the washcloth as if it has personally offended him. “Stupid angel,” he mutters, as he starts scrubbing at the floor on his knees. He feels victimized, like a demonic version of Cinderella. “Stupid challenge. Stupid Sam. Stupid kitchen.”

Castiel ignores him, and yanks Dean up by the handcuff chain as he straightens up from where he just finished wringing the mop dry over the pail. “Come, Dean,” he says, “I need to mop the floor.”

Dean follows sullenly, still muttering angrily under his breath. “You could just clean everything up in a snap of your fingers if you wanted,” he tells Castiel with an accusing glare.

“That would void the challenge. And my promise,” Cas replies as he ties a little bandanna around his head to keep his hair (and the dripping goop on it) out of his face. “Which I will not do, because I am, as you say, ‘a pillar of integrity’.” There is still a smudge of brown sludge on his right cheek from where he didn’t quite manage to get at all the crap that was staining his face. His face is gravely solemn as he takes up the mop and begins to mop at the floor with the industrious, brisk efficiency of a one-man angelic cleaning machine. He looks utterly ridiculous, like the most stone-faced cleaning lady ever.

Dean scowls at him and wipes at whatever he can reach from within the limited range of movement brought about by the handcuffs. He stares at Castiel’s back as the angel attacks the floor with a vengeance, as if the stains are hordes of demons and the mop is his angel blade. Dean leans back against the kitchen countertop for a moment to admire the view.

“Mop, mop, fashion baby, work it, move that bitch crazy,” he declares, voice deadpan.

Castiel turns around to give him a death glare.

“Dean, shut up and start cleaning as well.”

Dean rolls his eyes, and resumes his wiping. It is going to be a long, arduous afternoon.

 

\---

 

An hour later, the kitchen is, if not sparkling clean, at least passably non-dirty. Through what Dean maintains is consummate teamwork, and what Castiel maintains is him doing all the work while Dean just stood back and whined a lot, the kitchen has been returned to a semi-normal state. It bears an at least superficial resemblance to the kitchen as it had been before Castiel decided to try his hand at making pie, and that is a sterling accomplishment in Dean’s books, especially given that no supernatural powers had been involved.

Castiel surveys their handiwork with a small frown, but he finally sighs, apparently deciding to deem it of a passable standard. “That’s done, then,” he says wearily. His gaze falls downwards and his frown deepens. He tugs distastefully at his incredibly stained clothing, which is now stiff with the sticky mixture of dried flour and chocolate.

Dean knows how he feels. He feels absolutely _disgusting_ , and this is coming from a guy who survived a year in Purgatory- not a whole lot of time for showers there, even when you’re covered in blood, dirt and monster guts.

“Okay, Cas, time to work your snappy magic,” Dean tells the angel, snapping his own fingers in demonstration. “Clean us up.”

Castiel gives him a stern look. “I believe you said ‘no cheating’, Dean,” he says.

“What?” Dean bursts out indignantly, “But we already cleaned the kitchen by hand! The stupid old fashioned human way! C’mon, Cas. Enough already.” He looks pleadingly at Castiel. “You win the challenge, alright? I salute you! You are an absolute master at being human. Now can you just snap us clean already?”

Cas shakes his head, face resolute. “I am not going to use any of my powers for the day, Dean. I swore an oath on my honor, and I would be setting a bad example for you if I broke it.” He nods solemnly. “We are going to go take a shower and then do the laundry. Like humans would,” he declares staunchly.

Dean gapes at him in disbelief. _Now_ the angel decides to get into the spirit of being human? _After_ Dean has had his humanity membership privileges revoked? This is so unfair.

Then his brain stutters to a halt as it fully processes Castiel’s words. The word ‘shower’ echoes ominously around in Dean’s headspace like a dire warning. Somewhere deep inside his mind, alarm bells are going off, and there is a slow dawning realization of doom, like he’s a passenger on a ship that had just sprung a leak and the water is slowly seeping in. The band is still playing valiantly on, but the deck is tipping beneath his feet, and he is slowly sliding downwards towards the deep blue sea-

“No!” Dean bursts out indignantly, and if his voice is perhaps a little more high-pitched than usual, that is nobody’s business but his. “I’m _not_ taking a shower with you!” His face flushes. “That is so- so… weird! I _refuse_ to do it.” He crosses his arms and glares at Castiel. “You can’t make me.”

“Suit yourself, Dean. If you wish to remain covered in filth, that’s your choice to make. In the meantime, _I_ want to take a shower,” Cas says, and he marches off towards the showers, dragging Dean with him. Dean is really tempted to dig in his heels and resist, but memories of his last ill-fated handcuffed tug-of-war with Cas force him to reconsider that option.

Dean’s mind is awhirl with panic, and the closer they get to the showers, the more he feels as though his heart might just try to make a break for it and forcefully bash its way to freedom out of his ribcage. His mind is churning away, in some strange state of stress-induced mathematical fervor, like it’s picking apart a logic puzzle.

 _Shower_ , goes the logical process of Dean’s brain _, Shower equals taking off clothes. Taking off clothes equals naked. Handcuffs equals Dean standing next to Castiel. Shower plus handcuffs equals Dean standing next to naked Castiel. Dean standing next to naked Castiel equals…?_

The logical part of Dean’s brain shuts off then.

“Naked,” Dean blurts out, panic and mortification (and some other feelings that are not so fit for polite company and that will forever and ever go unnamed, amen) forming a potent cocktail that has rendered his brain-mouth disconnection switch completely fried. There is an awkward pause, before he manages to stutter out, “You’re… gonna be… naked.”

Castiel turns to glare at him in exasperation.

“Yes, Dean. I believe that that is generally what showering entails,” he says. His voice is drier than the Sahara Desert.

Dean feels his cheeks burning. “We’re handcuffed together,” he points out.

“Yes, I know that, Dean,” Castiel says with long-suffering patience. “You keep whining about it every chance you get. I don’t think I could forget if I tried.”

Dean’s cheeks are burning so much he could probably fry an egg on them. He doesn’t know if Castiel is being wilfully dense, or if the angel is really that obtuse. “Don’t you think… that’s… kind of… awkward?” he tries.

Castiel rolls his eyes. “Dean. Self-consciousness of one’s body is an entirely psychological construct created by humans. The naked human body is nothing to be ashamed of. I don’t care if you look upon my vessel unclothed. It is merely a physical container for my true essence. Rest assured that I will not be bothered if you gaze upon it when I am showering.”

“ _I’ll_ be bothered!” Dean bursts out. “It’s awkward for _me_! Standing next to you when all your… _bits_ are hanging out there on display. Come on!”

Castiel gives him an exasperated look. “Nobody’s forcing you to look, Dean.” He is wearing the old familiar ‘ _you silly mud-monkey_ ’ expression that Dean hasn’t seen in quite some time. “Besides, aren’t communal showers prevalent in many human institutions? I believe teenage males in sports teams often participate in the practice of showering together after athletic activities as a sort of bonding exercise?”

“Yes, but… “ Dean shakes his head in frustration. He doesn’t know how to make Castiel understand. “C’mon, Cas, don’t tell me you won’t feel awkward standing next to me when I’m flouncing about in my birthday suit?”

Cas turns a stern no-nonsense glare on him. He says, voice factual, “Dean. When I raised you from perdition, I had to rebuild your body to reverse the injuries that caused your death as well as four months’ worth of decomposition. Trust me when I say that I am intimately familiar with every aspect of your physical form. You really have no need to feel any sense of shame around me.”

 _‘Intimately familiar with every aspect of your physical form’? Oh my god, does he even know what’s coming out of his mouth?_ Dean thinks to himself, eyes squeezed shut tightly. He feels like he is going to die from mortification. He doesn’t think he has ever felt so awkward before. If he had his powers, he’d have opened up a hole beneath him and sunk straight down until he ignited in the fiery molten core of the Earth. Eyes still shut, he mutters, “Not helping, Cas. So not helping.”

Castiel lets out an annoyed huff and says, “Dean. Stop being ridiculous.” He tugs at the handcuff chains until Dean finally opens his eyes to glare weakly at the angel.

“If you don’t move of your own accord, I am going to carry you into the shower and bathe you like a human infant,” Castiel says warningly, and knowing Castiel, there is no doubt that he would really carry out his threat if he had to.

“Fine, fine, I’m coming, damn you,” Dean bites out, and he trails after Castiel with the same amount of enthusiasm as an aristocrat in 18th century Paris being escorted to an appointment with Madame Guillotine.

 _Just close your eyes_ , he tells himself, taking deep, calming breaths, _Don’t think about it. Just block off all your senses and concentrate on other things. Like Bobby naked. Or ghouls. Ghouls are good_.

Once they are in the bathroom, Castiel proceeds to strip without an ounce of self-consciousness. Dean pointedly looks at the ceiling, and ignores the rustling of cloth as Castiel struggles to remove his clothing while being handicapped by the handcuff on his left hand. There is some cursing and the sounds of furious tussling and something that sounds suspiciously like the ripping of cloth, but Dean determinedly does not look. Instead he just stares at the ceiling as if his eyes are glued to it.

 _Wow, the ceiling sure is nice_ , he thinks to himself as Castiel yanks their cuffed hands about, swearing in what sounds like a garbled mixture of English and Enochian. By the sound of things, he has somehow managed to get one of the legs of his trousers stuck. He is hopping furiously about on one foot and tugging at the trouser leg with both hands, meaning that Dean’s hand is being mashed repeatedly against something that feels suspiciously like warm flesh but which he is determinedly not thinking about. _What a nice grey concrete ceiling_ , Dean thinks desperately. _It’s so… grey. That’s….nice._

Finally, to Dean’s great relief, Castiel succeeds in getting his slacks off. And thankfully the remainder of Castiel’s clothing removal operations are conducted one-handed and go far more smoothly, so Dean’s brain remains mercifully unbroken.

“Dean, I’m heading into the shower,” Castiel announces as he gives Dean a gentle tug on the cuffs. Dean walks backwards towards the shower as Castiel leads them there, still refusing to look anywhere in Castiel’s general direction.

“Are you sure you don’t want to take off your clothes too?” Cas says, “You might as well shower at the same time. You’re going to get all wet anyway.” He pauses and adds, with an air of someone who does not really understand but is trying to be accommodating anyway, “I promise not to look at you.”

“No thanks,” Dean says, and his voice comes out slightly strangled despite all his best efforts at coaxing it into a semblance of normalcy.

Dean can hear the doubt in Castiel’s tone as he says, “Your clothes are going to get all wet, Dean.”

“It’s okay,” Dean assures him. Why can’t Cas just hurry up and get into the damn shower already?

With a disbelieving huff, Castiel finally moves into the shower, and Dean follows the tug of the cuffs, walking backwards and trying his best not to knock into anything. He closes his eyes as the shower turns on, and the warm water comes spraying down onto both of them. The drumming of the water and the sounds of water sliding off Castiel’s body to hit the tiles bring images to Dean’s mind that he’d really rather not be imagining at the moment. His libido, like some terrible beast awakening from its slumber, raises its head to scent at the air. Dean wills himself not to show any reaction, but it’s getting harder and harder not to, and boy, if that isn’t the most unfortunate choice of words—

 _Ghouls,_ he thinks desperately to himself, _Big, scary, ugly ghouls._

But something intrudes. In his mind’s eye, he sees it: water running down the long line of Cas’s throat, sliding down his bare skin— _No, no, no, no. Don’t even go there, damn it!_

Dean takes a deep breath.

ZOMBIES. _Yes, zombies! Dead things! Decaying dead things. Disgusting, decaying dead things..._

 _… Castiel, eyes closed, rivulets of water running down his face, dripping down his chest—_ BUGS. _Slimy, disgusting, squirmy bugs. Heaps of centipedes crawling about with all their creepy little legs, maggots on corpses, tiny pink earthworms wriggling everywhere…_

_… Castiel’s hands drift further and further downwards as he massages soap onto his skin and his fingers meet something that’s kind of pink but most definitely neither tiny, nor an earthworm—_

By some incredible feat of will, Dean manages to stop himself from gasping. He squeezes his eyes shut even tighter, and thinks furiously to himself, _No, no, no,_ NO _. Stop it, Dean. Seriously, get a grip on yourself. Think… think of Bobby naked. Heck, Crowley naked—_

Suddenly, the memory flashes across his mind, unbidden. Him and Crowley sitting in a diner, talking about Hell. _“Hell’s complicated,” Crowley says to him. Dean glares at him. His reply is terse, and full of irritation, “Game of Thrones is complicated. Shower sex, that’s complicated—“_

With a heroic surge of willpower, Dean wrenches his mind away from the dangerous path it is threatening to veer onto. Grimacing, he wrestles down thoughts of shoving Castiel against the shower wall, and staunchly ignores the many creative ways of handcuffs-usage that his brain is oh so helpfully throwing up, each one even more brilliantly innovative than the ones before.

Counting slowly up to ten, he forces himself to think about wendigos and putrid week-old rotting corpses and the one time when Sam was six and he puked all over Dean after stuffing himself with a whole jumbo bag of Cadbury Creme Eggs despite all Dean’s warnings not to. (To make things even worse, he had drunk two glasses of milk before that. The whole experience had been… unpleasant… to say the least.)

Next to him, Castiel is singing softly. Despite his best attempts to ignore everything Cas-related, Dean finds himself listening to the song and his eyebrows rise.

“Dude. Are you seriously singing the theme song from The Greatest American Hero?”

Castiel stops singing.

“Yes? Is there something wrong with that?”

Dean can almost picture the indignant, slightly perplexed expression on Castiel’s face as his brows furrow in that rather endearing way they always do. He cannot help but let out an amused chuckle. “Nope, nothing wrong at all. I just find it funny that you sing in the shower.”

Castiel’s tone is defensive as he says, somewhat irritably, “It’s a common human practice.”

Dean chuckles. “Sure.”

Castiel sings a few more bars before he suddenly says, “I find this song works well as a soothing lullaby. I sang it once to a baby, and the baby stopped crying.”

“That’s uh- nice?”

“So I thought, by analogical reasoning it should soothe you as well,” Castiel declares cheerily, and _what the hell, man, did he just imply Dean was being a big baby?_ Without thinking, Dean turns around to glare at him.

It is a colossal mistake.

Dean sees bare skin, beaded with droplets of water. Castiel is in the middle of soaping his upper torso, and through the soap suds, Dean catches a glimpse of a body that is surprisingly well defined for a man who resembles nothing more than a nerdy tax accountant and who constantly insists on wearing oversized trench coats.

Castiel is looking right back at Dean, and his gaze is uncomfortably piercing as Dean’s eyes meet his. Small droplets of water are still trickling down his face; a few have collected on his lashes like dewdrops. His lips are parted slightly and a single pearl-like bead of water rests on the tip of his lower lip. As Dean watches, Castiel exhales and the water droplet trembles. It hangs right on the cusp of his lip for a brief, almost infinitesimal moment, quivering slightly, before finally dripping down.

Dean’s gaze follows it downwards before his mind can process the wisdom of this action, and hey look! There’s Castiel’s cock, nestled in a bed of gleaming black curls, wet from his shower, and even flaccid as it is, there is no question that Jimmy Novak is one well-endowed man. Cas sure knows how to pick ‘em. Dean feels a traitorous stirring of interest in his nether regions as his own dick begins to perk up and pay full attention—

_Oh shit._

Dean shuts his eyes quickly, and turns around so fast he probably just gave himself whiplash. His heart pounds in his chest, and his breaths are coming a little too fast for his liking. He tries to breathe softly, not wanting to alert Castiel to his distress. However, it seems that Castiel has caught on anyway.

“Dean?” Castiel asks worriedly. “Is everything okay?”

“I’m fine,” Dean says gruffly, eyes squeezed shut.

So Castiel claims to be ‘intimately familiar with all aspects of Dean’s physical form’? Well, Dean is willing to bet if Cas saw the front of Dean’s pants now, he would be changing his tune real quick. _Never seen it do_ that _before, have you?_ he thinks viciously at an imaginary Castiel, fuming silently and cursing his inconvenient hard-on.

Even though Castiel seems to have a shaky grasp on human social niceties on the best of days, surely even he couldn’t possibly think it’s perfectly normal for someone to pop a boner after getting an eyeful of their best friend naked in the shower, could he?

Vaguely, Dean wonders what would happen if he turned around right now. Because he’s an idiot like that, and possibly something of a masochist himself, he tries out the various scenarios in his head.

Dean briefly amuses himself imagining Castiel taking one look at Dean’s trouser monster before flipping out, clamping his hands over his eyes and shrieking in terror. He only barely manages to contain the slightly hysterical chuckle that threatens to escape him at the thought of the normally stone-faced angel behaving like a schoolgirl being confronted with a park flasher- it’s just too ludicrous. It would never happen like that. For one, Cas would never scream. This is the guy who faced down Lucifer and Michael without flinching, for god’s sake.

No, Cas would probably just stare Dean’s dick down bravely like the badass that he is, his face grave like something carved right out of granite. Then, cool as a cucumber, he would do that hand flick thing of his to whip out his angel sword and he would…

Uh. Yeahhh… moving on.

Dean decides to try for something realistic. In the second scenario that plays out in his mind, Castiel’s eyes widen in horror when his gaze falls upon Dean and he takes in the bulge at the front of Dean’s trousers. As comprehension dawns, his lips curl into a snarl of deep disgust. “ _Abomination,_ ” his expression practically spits. He backs away slowly, as far as the handcuff chains will allow. But the worst thing of all is the look in his eyes. Behind the contempt and revulsion, there is a sort of disdainful pity, like Dean is some poor, misshapen creature he wishes he could put out of its misery-

Dean drops this scenario quickly. He knows it is just a figment of his imagination, but it still feels far too real to him. It leaves a sour taste in his mouth.

Grimacing, Dean pushes those horrible thoughts away and tries to come up with something that doesn’t make it feel as though his chest is being skewered through by a red hot poker. But the next scenario that Dean’s traitorous mind comes up with is far, far worse.

Instead of flinching away in revulsion, Cas, smiling and unafraid, reaches out to cup Dean’s face. His touch is tender, his fingers warm. He looks at Dean as if he’s the most precious thing in the world, as if Dean is the only thing he could ever possibly want. There is a gentle acceptance in his eyes as he says, voice soft, “ _Dean, I_ —

With brutal efficiency born of long practice, Dean cuts it off before it can get too far. Down that road, he knows, lies only madness.

To wash away the bad taste in his mouth, Dean tries out one last scenario.

He turns around to face Cas and at first, Cas just stares at him blankly. He tilts his head ever so slightly to one side in confusion. Then, frowning gravely, he asks, “Why do you appear to have an erection, Dean? Is there something wrong with your penis?” After a beat, his confused frown turns into one of worry and he adds, “Do you require healing?” And as Dean stares at him in mortified horror, speechless, Cas raises two fingers towards his forehead to try to heal him.

 _Yup,_ Dean thinks as he tries his best not to die from shame, _That’s it right there. Classic Cas. That’s exactly what he’d do._

Dean fights the urge to smack his face into his palm and groan.

 _Great. This is just great,_ he thinks to himself angrily. What has he ever done to deserve this? Forced to stand in the shower next to a socially inept angel with a terrible comprehension of basic boundaries, trying his best to hide his incredibly inappropriate hard-on as warm water washes down all over his skin— He wouldn’t wish this particular brand of torture on his worst enemy. Even the most exquisite of agonies produced by Alastair’s techniques couldn’t possibly hold a candle to this most cruel and unusual of punishments. If demons actually had any rights under the Constitution, Dean would have a really strong Eighth Amendment case based on this.

“Dean, are you sure you’re alright? You don’t sound alright,” Cas says, blithely oblivious to Dean’s current agony.

Dean grits his teeth. “Just hurry up and finish your damn shower, will you?” he snaps, voice curt.

Dean cannot see Castiel’s face, but he doesn’t need to in order to picture the expression of perplexed hurt on it right now. Yet he finds himself too angry to care. He waits in sullen silence, and thinks vicious thoughts of how much he hates the cuffs, and the damn angel, and his stupid brother, and the whole goddamn universe for conspiring to put him in this awful situation.

Over the course of his life, Dean has always wondered vaguely if there is some higher power out there that thrives on his suffering and derives some form of sick amusement from putting him through increasingly terrible experiences. Now, he is almost 99.99999% sure. If not for a marked absence of candy wrappers and the knowledge that Gabriel is most definitely dead, Dean would almost have suspected the archangel/pseudo-trickster/pagan-god-thing of having his grubby candy-grabbing hands in this. It would totally be his style. But alas, there is no identifiable culprit for Dean to murder gleefully in righteous vengeance.

(Except for Sam, really, but Dean isn’t going to do that, much as he is sometimes strongly tempted to.)

The one good thing about Dean’s anger is that his dick seems to have finally gotten the message. Chastened, Dean’s libido slinks sadly back to the deep dark cave it crawled out from, hopefully never to emerge again.

By the time Castiel finally finishes his shower, the tent in Dean’s pants is gone and he is once more presentable from the front. Dripping wet, Dean sullenly follows the angel out of the shower stall. Castiel towels himself dry and shrugs on his large fluffy dark blue bathrobe, tying it at the waist. The cuffs prevent him from putting his right hand through the bathrobe sleeve, so the right sleeve just flops about at his waist, leaving half his chest bared. It makes him look as though he is halfway through the world’s lamest striptease.

Dean forces himself to stop looking. He grudgingly takes the towel that Castiel offers him, and attempts to dry himself as well. However, his clothes are all soaked through, and despite his best efforts, he still drips water everywhere, squelching with every darkly miserable step.

He follows Castiel in angry silence as the angel leads them to the laundry room, where Castiel proceeds to dump his dirty clothes into the washing machine. Castiel turns at him, and asks, “Dean, would you like me to—”

Dean cuts him off with a curt “No thanks.” Glaring furiously, he ignores the way Castiel’s face falls, and the disgusting feel of his sodden clothes sticking to his skin. He would rather remain dirty and wet all day than take a single piece of his clothing off. Maybe it’s spiteful and petty and kind of self-defeating, but Dean is a demon. He’s entitled to be as spiteful and petty and self-defeating as he wants. Those things are the essence of what evil is, after all.

Castiel sighs, and gives Dean a gently reproachful look before turning his attention back to the washing machine. After setting it to wash, he walks to the nearby bench to sit down, and Dean is forced to follow by the tugging of the handcuffs. They sit down and watch the machine spin in silence.

Dean is wet and cold, his dirty, sodden clothes are clinging to his skin and he is practically sitting in a puddle. He stares angrily at the washing machine, watching Castiel’s clothes tumble around in it. If Dean still had his powers, the machine would probably have spontaneously exploded by now. But the handcuffs are on, and it remains infuriatingly intact.

In lieu of glaring at Castiel’s stupid face, Dean glares at his clothes instead. The angel didn’t even have the good sense to separate out the whites from the colors. Dean hopes that the colors on Castiel’s clothes run and his stupid white shirt turns blue or something. That’d serve the stupid son of a bitch right. He put too much washing powder in as well. Dean saw him add at least three scoopfuls, but did not bother to correct him. Dean hopes all his clothes come out soapy and disgusting.

He sneezes, once, twice, and swipes at his nose angrily. Stupid handcuffs. Stupid useless demonic powers. Why is it that once a few lines, a circle and some stupid squiggles are drawn, Dean suddenly loses all his mojo, and is reduced to being almost as useless as an ordinary human? And what’s with all the sneezing? He’s a demon, he’s already _dead_ damn it, how does he even catch a cold? Shouldn’t that be impossible? It makes no friggin’ sense.

He glares down at the pool of water at his feet, feeling like the world’s worst trash.

A sudden snapping noise interrupts his sullen musings. Abruptly, Dean finds himself completely dry, his clothes miraculously clean again. Dean looks up, startled, and sees Castiel, hand still raised awkwardly, looking at him with an unreadable expression on his face.

Dean stares at the angel in surprise. “What happened to not using your powers?”

“I’m forfeiting the challenge,” Castiel says, and there is a hint of something like apology or guilt on his face. He does not meet Dean’s gaze.

“What? Why?”

“You looked so… sad,” Castiel admits quietly. His head is bowed, his hands clasped together on his lap, and he stares down at his entwined fingers as he speaks, “It wasn’t worth it to win the challenge if it meant that you had to go through so much anguish.” Castiel slowly lifts his eyes to meet Dean’s gaze. His voice is solemn as he says, “I must apologize, Dean, for not realizing that sooner.”

Dean raises an eyebrow. A small part of him wonders whether he should be offended that Cas apparently changed his mind because Dean looked too pathetic, but a much larger part of him is hopelessly touched that Cas would break his word just to make Dean a little less unhappy.

“’Anguish’ is kind of a strong word, Cas. It’s not like I was being raked over hot coals or anything,” he says dryly, but inside, he feels warmth blossoming in his chest. A tentative smile tugs at his lips as he says softly, “But, uh, thanks anyway.”

Cas smiles back, and Dean’s heart does a funny thing. The pained, twisting feeling in his chest, he tells himself, is probably just heartburn, though he’s not sure who exactly he is trying to kid.

 _Damn it, Cas_ , he thinks, but looking at the angel’s smiling face, he cannot muster up any real anger.

“You still suck at making pie though,” he says, and chuckles as Cas glares weakly at him. “I’m never letting you near an oven again. I like the Bunker as it is. Not burnt down. Plus, I think Sam would probably have a heart attack.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can I just say- I love writing this fic. Any story that allows me to write ‘He feels victimized, like a demonic version of Cinderella’ with a minimal amount of facetiousness is automatically a winner in my books.


	9. In Vino Veritas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Bunker gains a new home theater system, Star Wars marathons and drunken escapades are had, and while under the influence Dean maybe talks a little too much about his love for ‘fries’.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your kind comments guys, you're all such sweethearts. Knowing people enjoy this ridiculous fic warms me right down to the core of my black shrivelled heart :') 
> 
> For those of you who watch BBC Sherlock, you might recognize the game Cas and Dean play with the little pieces of paper. It’s heavily inspired by the hilarious scene in s3x02 where John and Sherlock play the same game, so credit where credit’s due. 
> 
> Also, JSYK, I am a huge fan of Star Wars and to a somewhat lesser extent, Star Trek. I mock not out of condescension, but out of the deepest, purest love. It’s just how I show affection. I’m a terrible person like that xD

After the disaster that was his first (and hopefully last) attempt at pie-making, Castiel steers clear of the kitchen, something for which Sam is guiltily thankful. For all that Cas has improved at doing simple human things, especially after his brief stint as a member of the human race, the angel is still pretty shit at being human. Sam is proud of him for trying, and rather touched by his enthusiasm, but unfortunately, enthusiasm doesn’t translate into competency, and Castiel’s blundering attempts at trying out human things seem destined to go about as well as that of an enthusiastic amateur trying to achieve nuclear fission. So when Cas shows no sign of wanting to repeat his failed baking experiment, Sam breathes a huge sigh of relief in his head, and feels vaguely guilty about it for the rest of the week.

In any case, life proceeds without much event for the next few days. Nothing burns, Dean and Cas sit in the library, now their favorite haunt, watching shitty TV on Dean’s laptop and bickering with each other over silly things like who would win in a fight between Batman and Superman- because apparently, Dean has taken Metatron’s pop culture info dump into Castiel’s head as a license for him to try to test Castiel’s pop culture savviness (and patience) at every turn.

Unsurprisingly, in this hypothetical fight scenario, Dean roots for Batman. He insists that Batman would win “because he’s _Batman_ ”, to which Castiel simply gives him an unimpressed look, and replies, “No, he wouldn’t. Logically, Superman would win. He can fly, shoot laser beams from his eyes and punch through skyscrapers. That’s not even mentioning the film where he reverses time by flying faster than the speed of light.”

Sam is amazed that Castiel is indulging Dean in his ridiculous thought exercise about fictional characters fighting. If Castiel ever gets kicked out from his day job as an angel again, Sam should suggest that he look into childcare as a viable alternative career path. He’s obviously a natural at this.

Dean scoffs at Castiel’s argument and declares haughtily, “That’s a _stupid_ power. It doesn’t even make _sense_.”

“And a billionaire deciding to spend his nights dressed up as a bat, fighting crime with his fists because a criminal killed his parents is any less ridiculous?”

“Batman is awesome,” Dean says loyally. He furrows his brows and puts on a face which is probably meant to be serious and intimidating and all kinds of badass, but mainly just ends up making him look kind of constipated. In a voice that suggests he has been gargling gravel for days, he says, “I am vengeance. I am the night. I am…” He leans in close to Castiel’s face and growls, “ _Batman_.”

This is so typically Dean that Sam is unable to contain his snort of laughter, though he hastily disguises it as a cough and turns another page in his book, hoping that Dean hasn’t noticed.

Castiel is equally unimpressed by Dean’s theatrics. “You’re not Batman, Dean. Batman is a fictional character,” he informs Dean with a roll of his eyes.

Apparently Dean had heard Sam’s none too subtle snort earlier because he turns around and says to Sam, “Tell him, Sam. I’m Batman, aren’t I? Remember that time with the rabbit’s foot when I totally wiped the floor with those asshats who wanted to kill you?” He puffs out his chest proudly, smiling in fond remembrance. “Yeah, I’m Batman.”

Sam shakes his head in long-suffering exasperation and says, voice wry with amusement, “Yes, you are, Dean. Yes you are.”

Dean grins in delight and turns back to Cas, whereupon he proceeds to try to coax the angel into saying all his favorite Batman quotes because “C’mon, you’ve got the perfect voice for it, Cas!”

Eventually, Cas gets exasperated enough to give in, and he parrots Dean’s quotes dutifully like the world’s most monotonous robot, while Dean grins proudly at him like a doting parent whose toddler has finally learned how to talk. Sam watches them, his research forgotten at the side of the table.

It is strangely entertaining.

 

\---

 

Over the course of the next few days, Cas and Dean are always to be found at their usual spots at the library table they have claimed for their own, entertaining themselves on Dean’s laptop or engaging in pop culture debates. Sam wouldn’t be surprised if they had never left their seats at all. The two of them are practically permanent fixtures now. They’ll probably start growing moss soon.

Perhaps this explains why Sam is lulled into a false sense of complacency, such that when he walks past the library one evening and briefly glances in, expecting to see Cas and Dean in their usual spot, the sight that greets his eyes makes him stop short and stare.

One of the library tables is missing. In its place is a sleek black leather couch upon which Dean is lounging happily, a remote in his hand. Cas is sitting on the floor in front of him, staring avidly at the new gigantic television screen that has mysteriously appeared upon the wall, surrounded by a veritable army of speakers and several shiny ultra-slim electronic devices that would not have looked too out of place on the bridge of the starship Enterprise. Sam almost expects to see holograms popping out any moment. The sneaking suspicion that this is possibly what is meant by the word ‘high-end’ pops into his head.

Sam looks at what Dean and Cas are watching and it only takes him a few seconds to place the movie. It's Star Wars. Somehow, Sam isn't really that surprised.

On the television screen, in ultra-high-definition that highlights every shining golden hair on his little blonde head, young Anakin Skywalker stares up at Padme Amidala and asks, “Are you an angel?”

“What?” Padme says, bewildered. Her line is echoed by an equally bewildered Castiel as Dean sniggers.

On screen, Anakin continues on, “An angel. I've heard the deep space pilots talk about them. They live on the moons of Iego, I think. They're the most beautiful creatures in the universe.”

It's just _painful_. The woodenness of the acting would have put Pinocchio to shame. Watching it, Sam fights the urge to cringe in secondhand embarrassment.

Dean, on the other hand, is terribly amused. He bursts out into ugly laughter at Anakin’s last line and at the accompanying expression on Castiel’s face- the angel is staring at the screen in horrified disbelief, like he can’t quite believe his ears. He looks as though he can’t decide whether to smite the screen or just pretend it doesn’t exist.

“That’s some _quality_ scriptwriting right there, real Oscar material,” Dean tells Castiel with a chuckle. “Talk about bad pick-up lines.” He nudges Castiel’s shoulders. “Most beautiful creatures in the universe, eh, Cas?”

Cas shoots him a withering glare. “This George Lucas has some seriously misconceived ideas about angels. We are warriors of God, not… not—" his mouth screws up into a grimace of distaste, " _maidenly moon-dwelling beauties_.”

“Oh?” Dean says teasingly, his eyes playful, “You sure about that? Maybe George is onto something there...”

Cas frowns at him, and is about to snap off an angry retort when Sam finally manages to jerk out of his shock-induced daze.

“What’s all this?” he says, gesturing in the general direction of the television, speakers and couch.

Cas and Dean turn to look at him, seemingly only noticing him for the first time. Dean scowls at him but Castiel just smiles pleasantly at Sam.

“Hello, Sam,” he says, “Dean is showing me the Star Wars films. He says that this is part of my pop culture education.”

Sam raises an eyebrow. "Don’t you already know all about pop culture? And Star Wars? Just last week you laughed at that stupid joke Dean made about me looking good in a slave bikini.”

Dean perks up at this and grins. “Hell yeah, Sammy,” he says with relish, “Screw that Leia chick. You’re still the prettiest Disney princess in my eyes.” He bats his eyelashes at Sam and pretends to swoon, clasping one hand to his heart dramatically as he heaves a dreamy sigh.

Cas chuckles, but falls into guilty silence when Sam looks at him. He ducks his head and says with a sheepish smile, “I wanted to actually watch the films for myself.”

“Yeah, who wouldn’t, man?” Dean chimes in, “They’re classics! Abstract knowledge can never compare to the real experience.” He grins at Castiel. “Besides, if I had to sit through three films worth of Jar Jar Binks, so must you.”

Sam looks at him, unamused. “Yeah whatever, that's lovely, but what I really meant was- why has the library been transformed into your personal cinema?”

Dean gives him a look that implies Sam is being terribly slow. “Look. If we have a Star Wars marathon, we gotta do it properly,” he says matter-of-factly. “C’mon, this place was crying out for some cozying up. No secret headquarters is truly complete without a full surround sound home theater system. Check out this baby.” Dean stands up from the couch and walks over to the television, forcing Castiel to hastily leap to his feet as well lest he be dragged along on the floor by the handcuff chains like a sack of potatoes.

Smiling fondly, Dean pats the television screen, his eyes gleaming with the same proprietary sort of pride that is usually directed at the Impala. “Ultra HD, 55 inch LCD screen, 3D capable- it comes with these cool little goggle thingies. You can even go on the internet with it—”

Looks like Dean missed his true calling as a Best Buy television salesman. Rolling his eyes, Sam interrupts Dean's loving spiel about all the wonderful features of his new baby with a curt, “Whatever. Where did you guys get all this stuff from?”

Cas looks distinctly shifty. “It was from…”

“Walmart,” Dean says smoothly, voice nonchalant. He smiles pleasantly at Sam, as if daring him to disagree.

Sam looks at the TV and speakers and couch, all of which probably cost more than most people earn in a year. “Yeah, Walmart totally started stocking ultra-high-end TVs and stereo equipment to cater to their new customer base of billionaires. Now where did you really get these from? Was legal tender even involved? Or did Dean just take what he wanted as usual?”

Dean glares daggers at him. “I’m sorry, what legal tender? You mean the money that we got from _pool hustling_ and _credit card fraud_? That legal tender? Was that what you meant, Sam?”

Sam’s glare doesn’t waver, but he remains silent. He has no real reply.

Dean rolls his eyes and says bitingly, “Well, Mother Teresa, maybe it’ll ease your aching conscience to know— we took these from the swanky bachelor pad of some slimy Wall Street douchebag who got himself arrested for all the millions in taxpayer bailout money he embezzled. Not to mention his stacks of child porn.” He gives a contemptuous snort, scrunching his face up in disgust. “Son of a bitch is rotting in prison now. So it’s not like he’s gonna miss all his little toys.”

Sam gives him a skeptical look.

Dean looks back at him exasperatedly. “C’mon Sam, do you really think the angel would let me get away with it if I did something bad? _Really_?”

He continues in an angry undertone, “Anyway, it’s not like I’m gonna start murdering people just because I got away with stealing a few things. Jeez.”

Sam ignores him and turns to Castiel. “Is Dean telling the truth?” he asks.

Cas nods. But looking at the stormy expression on Sam’s face, he droops. Slowly, sadly, with an air of great reluctance, he says, “Well, we could always return them…”

Dean stares at him as though he had just grown a second head and bursts out indignantly, “What? No! Cas, you don’t need to give in to this tyrant! We didn’t do anything wrong—”

Sam sighs wearily. “Yeah, you guys are regular modern day Robin Hoods. Whatever. Just keep it. I don’t really care.”

Dean turns a scathing glare upon Sam. “Why thank you for that gracious stamp of approval, _Emperor Palpatine_ ,” he says acerbically, “I don’t know what we’d do without your loving judgment of our every action.” He throws Sam a mocking salute and declares, “All hail the Empire!”

Turning to Castiel, he says, “Hey Cas, now you’re supposed to go down on one knee and say,” he deepens his voice by several registers, “What is thy bidding, my master?”

Cas gives Dean a quizzical look. His brows furrow in confusion as he says, “I don’t understand. Why am I Darth Vader in this scenario? Isn’t Vader an evil force-user and the second in command of the Empire? I am an Angel of the Lord, and I rebelled against Heaven itself to protect the freedom of humanity. I do not see how our situations are in any way analogous...”

Dean and Sam roll their eyes almost in synch and then glare at each other. Oblivious, Cas continues on blithely, “If anything, I should be Han Solo.”

Dean bursts out into surprised laughter at Castiel’s pronouncement. Grinning wryly, he says, “Well, this just goes to show- everyone wants to be Han. Even angels.”

“You’re not Han, Cas,” he tells Cas pointedly, “You ain’t enough of a scoundrel. If anything, you’re Chewie.”

Cas frowns. “The wookie? I’m not sure I like that comparison any better.”

Sam snorts in laughter, and Dean turns to glare at him.

“Don’t you have more innocent people to subjugate and days to ruin out there?” he says bitingly, “Don’t think you’ve quite hit your oppression quota for the day yet, Lord Sidious. Why don’t you go find some Ewoks to pick on? Maybe kill a puppy too?”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Yeah, may the force be with you as well, Dean.”

Shaking his head in amused exasperation, he walks away. Really, he should know better by now than to underestimate Dean and Castiel’s capacity for zany antics. What will the two of them get up to next?

 

\---

 

When Sam next passes by the Library’s new makeshift living room, he finds that the answer to his previous question is: get wildly drunk.

Dean and Cas are sitting on the floor in front of the couch, a lone island surrounded by a sea of beer and whiskey bottles, most of which are already empty. There are glasses lying around as well, but Dean and Castiel appear to have abandoned them for drinking straight out of the bottles for expediency's sake.

Dean is smiling lazily, eyes half-closed, and Sam recognizes the blissed out expression on his face as Dean’s ‘just the right amount of tipsy’ face. He takes a swig from his beer bottle, and declares grandly, “You know one thing these cuffs are good for? I can get drunk again. Without having to purposely _make_ myself get drunk.” He sighs happily, and leans his head back onto the couch to stare at the ceiling in a contented daze.

Cas, on the other hand, is staring glumly at the bottle of Jack Daniel’s he is holding in his hand. It is already more than half-empty. Around his feet there are about six more bottles of the same, all empty.

“This isn’t working, Dean,” he says.

Dean lifts his head to look at Castiel bemusedly. “Didn’t you manage to get drunk before? I remember that time you went on a bender.” He chuckles. “You were so wasted. It was _hilarious_.”

Cas glares weakly at him. “Yes, but that was when I was slowly losing my grace. And after I drank a whole liquor store.”

Sam remembers the incident in question. It had definitely made him see Castiel in a whole new light. In hindsight, it was pretty amusing to see the normally stoic and unflappable angel so terribly out of it, though he certainly hadn’t thought so back then. Being called an abomination does tend to put most people in a rather bad mood.

Dean leans back and smiles at Castiel in fond exasperation. Nodding sagely like a mentor imparting to his eager student the wisdom of the ages, he tells Castiel, “The trick is to sit back and let the alcohol work its magic. Don’t flush it out with your angelic self-healing mojo. Just let it work its course.”

Cas frowns at him. “So you’re saying I should deliberately allow this substance to poison my vessel.”

Unperturbed, Dean says with an arched eyebrow, “Yeah well, that’s pretty much what drinking is about, isn’t it?”

Cas stares at him for a moment before saying, “I see your point.”

Smiling, Dean raises his bottle and looks pointedly at Cas until the angel raises his own bottle to Dean’s with a clink.

“Bottoms up, Cas,” Dean says cheerily.

They drink.

\---

 

Over the next few hours, from his spot at the sole remaining table in the library where he is supposedly doing some ‘research’, Sam watches surreptitiously as Dean and Castiel experiment with the limits of the human liver. They slowly make their way through Dean’s collection of favorite drinking games, some of which Sam is unhappily familiar with.

Beer pong rapidly loses its appeal since both parties, despite being obviously inebriated, still possess superhuman aiming skills. ‘Never Have I Ever’ turns into a grudge match when Dean abuses Castiel’s lack of familiarity with human practices one too many times. After Dean’s last zinger, a pointed “Never have I ever set fire to an oven while attempting to bake pie”, Castiel gets fed up and retaliates with the incredibly classy “Never have I ever been a demon”, to which Dean squawks and declares, “That is so unfair!” before taking a mutinous sip of his drink and saying, “Never have I ever been an angel!” Everything just devolves from there on into petty squabbling, before the two players finally tire of it and switch to card games.

Blackjack is a bust because of Castiel’s eidetic memory and uncanny card counting skills. Poker doesn’t go too well either. Castiel’s poker face is simply inhumanly good, and Dean loses every hand he plays. After his fifth crushing loss, Dean throws down his cards and announces, “I’m bored. Let’s switch games.”

There is a mischievous glint in his eyes and he glances briefly over to Sam with a sly smile as he says, “Here, I know a good one…”

Sam watches as Dean proceeds to explain the rules of Twenty Questions to a somewhat befuddled Castiel.

“So you pick a new identity for me and I ask questions to guess who I’m supposed to be?” Cas says hesitantly.

“Yup! Something like that.” Dean declares cheerily. Smiling gleefully, he scrawls out a name on a piece of sticky paper before slapping it onto Castiel’s forehead.

“Your turn,” he says. Cas stares down at his blank sticky note and says, “I can pick anyone?”

“Yes, yes, anyone you want,” Dean says impatiently. “Just don’t pick some obscure angel I’ve never heard of before. Try to pick someone we both know.”

Cas ponders his choice for a while before slowly writing something down. The moment his pen leaves the paper, Dean snatches the sticky note from him and pastes it on his own forehead. “Okay, you start first!” he says, practically bouncing with gleeful excitement.

Sam looks at the two of them and just barely manages to stop himself from rolling his eyes. They both look ridiculous with the little flags of yellow paper stuck to their heads. But even more ridiculous are the names they have chosen for each other.

‘Sam Winchester’ says the tag on Castiel’s forehead. On Dean's forehead is a tag with ‘Dean Winchester’ written on it in Castiel’s neat handwriting.

Dean obviously thinks he’s being terribly funny. Cas on the other hand is probably just being… Cas.

Castiel taps a finger against his empty bottle as he thinks about his first question, making the glass clink. “Am I a man?” he asks finally.

Smirking, Dean declares airily, “Yes. But sometimes you behave like a little girl.”

Cas frowns bewilderedly at this non sequitur. “Okay. Um... Am I tall?”

Dean whistles cheerfully and says, “Like a great pine-oak.”

“Am I… important?”

The smarmy grin plastered on Dean’s face is definitely all for Sam’s benefit as he says with great delight, “Self-important, yes.”

Castiel ponders this for a moment. His brows are furrowed in great concentration and he stares at his whiskey bottle as if he could find the answer to the game in there if he stared hard enough. “Am I nice?” he finally asks.

Dean looks sideways at Sam as he says, “Actually, you’re kind of an ass. But some people seem to like you, not sure why, really.” He gives Sam a saucy wink.

Sam gives Dean his most deadpan stare.

Castiel is oblivious to this exchange. Face scrunched up in furious concentration, he considers Dean’s answer for a moment before asking, “Am I a hunter?”

Dean smiles as he answers, “Yes.”

Castiel’s eyes light up in realization. His voice is confident as he asks, “Did I help stop the Apocalypse?”

 _Ah, he’s got it now_ , Sam thinks.

“Yep,” says Dean happily. He seems not at all bothered about losing- probably because the whole purpose of his little game was to have a joke at Sam’s expense. He looks expectantly at Castiel, all the while smirking smarmily and looking mighty pleased with himself. He is radiating an aura of insufferable smugness.

But that smugness is wiped right off his face when Castiel says, “Am I you?” and he looks at Dean proudly, beaming brightly like he’s expecting a little pat on the head and a gold star.

Sam does not even bother to try to hide his amusement as he sniggers loudly. Dean gapes at Castiel, spluttering in outrage. His mouth opens and closes a few times before he says, “What? No! Of course not! Why on earth would you even…” he trails off in frustration before huffing angrily. “Urgh, whatever. My turn.”

Wisely, Dean starts out his first question with “Am I human?”, a solid choice given that Castiel could have picked anything from Dick Roman to Christina Aguilera. Except in this case, the answer is perhaps not quite that clear cut. If the question of Dean's humanity (or lack thereof) was really that straightforward, life would sure be a whole lot easier for Sam and Castiel.

Sam sees the deliberation on Castiel’s face as he considers how best to answer this thorny question. “Sort of,” he says eventually.

Dean looks at him unhappily. “What do you mean ‘sort of’? You can’t say ‘sort of’. It has to be yes or no.”

“Fine,” Castiel says grudgingly. “No.”

Dean ponders this revelation. “Hmm. Am I an angel?”

“No.”

“Demon?”

“Yes.”

Dean’s eyes light up with a gleam of excitement, like a bloodhound catching the scent. “Am I a demon we both know?”

“Yes,” answers Cas, face deadpan. “We both know you very well.”

From the considering expression on Dean’s face, he is going through his mental Rolodex of every demon they know (and who Castiel could conceivably have picked). Finally, he seems to hit upon something.

Scrunching up his face in disgust, he asks, “Am I British?” and it secretly cheers Sam’s heart to see that there is apparently no love lost between Dean and his erstwhile best bud Crowley.

Castiel frowns bemusedly. “Technically, demons have no true nationality, the only faction they owe any real allegiance to is Hell—”

Dean groans. “Oh, for- just assume I’m talking about the human-looking meatsuit bits alright?”

Cas looks like he wants to protest but he eventually says, “No, you’re not British.”

Dean considers this. “Am I female?” he asks after a moment.

“No.”

Dean frowns. In his head, he is obviously crossing Meg off the list. Clearly baffled that the two most obvious suspects have been eliminated- Castiel’s list of demonic allies is rather painfully short- he thinks for a bit before taking a shot in the dark. “Okay. Uh. Am I a powerful demon?”

Sam watches Castiel’s face as he ponders how best to answer this. “Pretty powerful, yes…” he trails off, gaze falling on the handcuffs. “Maybe not so much now.”

Sam wants to smack his face into his palm. Castiel really sucks at this game.

Dean looks at Castiel suspiciously. There is a dawning glimmer of realization in his eyes.

“Am I handsome?” he asks, watching Castiel closely to gauge his reaction.

Castiel looks shifty. “By conventional human standards your form would be considered… aesthetically pleasing.” He noticeably does not meet Dean’s gaze as he mutters, “Well, that’s just what I’ve been told anyway.”

Dean’s eyes narrow.

The jig is most definitely up because the next question he asks is “Am I fond of pie?”

“Yes. Very much so,” Castiel answers matter-of-factly.

Dean sighs in exasperation. Rolling his eyes, he says, “Cas. You do realize that the point of this game is to try to pick someone hard for me to guess. So you know, maybe someone other than _myself_?”

He peels the tag off his forehead and looks at it in disgust before crumpling it and tossing it to one side.

Castiel’s expression is mulish. “You said I could pick anyone.”

Dean shakes his head wryly. “You have a stunning lack of imagination.”

Cas peels off his own tag and looks at it. “Says the guy who picked his own brother,” he retorts, glaring.

Dean passes him a new bottle of whiskey. “You still lost. Time to drink up,” he says with a bright grin.

Scowling, Castiel takes the bottle of whiskey from him.

“And no cheating,” Dean warns him, “I’ve got my eye on you.” He sits back and watches in satisfaction as Castiel downs the whole bottle. Folding his arms, he nods in approval. “We’re gonna get you properly sloshed this time. I’ll show you the _real_ meaning of a bender.”

 

\---

 

It is two hours later, after Sam has finished taking his dinner and a shower, that he comes back to the library to find that Dean’s words have indeed come true.

Cas and Dean have relocated themselves to the table. In front of them is a single bottle of bourbon and a couple of empty glasses. Castiel’s chin is propped up in his right hand, and he is staring at the nearly empty glass in front of him with unfocused eyes. Dean is not in much of a better state. He is slumped forward onto the table, head pillowed on his crossed arms as he stares dazedly at Castiel.

When Sam comes into the room, Castiel is the middle of some grand speech, waving his left arm about animatedly and making the handcuff chains rattle. His face is serious, but his words are noticeably slurred as he says, “It’s all made of atoms and mole- molec-mo- little thingies.”

“Little thingies,” Dean repeats. He tries to make a grab for his glass, but his fingers miss by about three inches.

Cas nods solemnly. “Yeah, the little thingies. Thingies. The funde- fundeme- basic- building blocks of the universe.”

“Okay,” Dean says, “Little universe brick thingies.”

Cas continues on, “So when I eat it, it tastes like thingies.”

“That’s sad,” Dean says earnestly. “That’s really sad. Angels are sad. I mean. No PB&J? That’s so sad.”

Cas nods morosely. “No PB&J.”

“No wonder- no wonder you guys are all such- humor ah- humorless jerks.”

Cas stares down at his glass and says quietly, “I kinda miss being human.”

Dean nods slowly. “I hear ya, bro.” He sighs deeply and makes a second attempt at capturing his glass. This time he is more successful and he manages to drag the glass towards himself. The whiskey in the glass sloshes over the sides as he does so, spilling all over his fingers and the table, but Dean doesn’t appear to care. He takes a swig from his glass as he waits for Castiel to continue.

Cas furrows his brows and says, “Now I see why you keep eating all the time. I thought- I thought it was just for survival. But it’s- it’s pretty enjoyable, actually.”

Dean grins crookedly at him. “Yeah. You know what I miss the most?”

Cas looks up at him and ventures a guess, “Pie?”

Dean scoffs and waves a hand at him dismissively. “Not pie. I can eat plenty of pie.”

He stays silent for a few moments before he finally says, “Fries. That’s what I miss. Fries.” He sighs. “I don’t love ’em half as much as I love burgers, but still…”

“Why can’t you eat fries?” Cas asks as he frowns in bewilderment.

Dean glares at the air. “Salt. Stupid salt.”

“But I thought-”

Dean sighs and waves a hand at Cas to cut off his protests. “Yeah, yeah, I know. I’m a- I’m a top demon thingy. What’s it called? Uh- something medieval. Lances and stuff.” He snaps his fingers, face scrunching up, as he struggles to recall the words.

“Knight of Hell,” Cas volunteers helpfully.

Smiling happily, Dean points a finger at him and nods. “Yeah, that. I’m like- super powerful.” A proud smile comes onto Dean’s face, and Sam thinks he might actually be preening a little.

Dean continues, “So you’d think I should able to handle some salt. I mean, I saw Ruby eat fries before. You remember Ruby? Sam’s evil demon girlfriend? Back-stabbing bitch.” He glares at the empty air for a few seconds in angry remembrance before continuing, “What was I saying? Oh yeah. Fries. I didn’t wanna try, y’know. It’s like- How if I can’t eat them? What if I don’t even like ‘em anymore?” He lets out a bark of bitter laughter. “Wouldn’t that be funny, eh? Maybe that’s my ultimate punishment. No fries. Cos demons don’t deserve nice, warm, greasy artery-clogging snacks.”

Staring down at his drink morosely, he says, “I didn’t even eat them that much before. Didn't even think I liked 'em that much. I've always preferred burgers, really. But now I’m like- why the Hell didn’t I eat 'em when I still had the chance? It’s true what they say, y'know. You never really appreciate what you have 'til you lose it.” He shakes his head morosely. “Ain’t that a bitch.”

Castiel looks utterly confused by Dean's strange logic. Brows furrowed, he says, “That makes no sense, Dean. Of course you deserve to have fries. If you miss them so much… Why don’t you just try eating them anyway?”

Dean continues to stare glumly at the whiskey in his glass, his eyes following the swirling motion of the amber liquid as he turns the glass around slowly in his hands. He says, voice low, “’Cos… cos, you know it’s like- it’s like… have you ever had something that you want so much, but you know there’s a huge chance you can’t have it? You’d rather- you’d rather just not try, you know? Do you know what I mean?”

He looks up at Castiel intently, as if he is willing Castiel to understand, but Cas just stares back at him in blank confusion. It is clear from the expression on Castiel’s face that he thinks Dean is making absolutely zero sense.

Dean soldiers on. “You’d rather not try… cos you love it so much it’d be real sad if it turns out you couldn’t have it. So you’d rather just live without it.” He looks away from Castiel, swallowing hard. “This way- you don’t get your hopes up—this way… you don’t get hurt…”

Sam has a pretty strong suspicion that Dean isn’t exactly talking about fries anymore. There is a distant, wistful look in his eyes, and after he finishes, trailing off into silence, suddenly, the alcohol-induced daze clouding his features clears. A hint of something like fear or anxiety flashes across his face, almost as if he just realized he had revealed more than he really should have. His gaze flickers over to Castiel for the barest of seconds. To anyone else looking at him, Dean’s face might as well be a blank, emotionless mask, but Sam knows how to read his brother, and he can see the small signs of unease in the set of Dean’s features, in the slightest clenching of his fists. Dean is afraid or ashamed of something- but hell if Sam knows what it is.

Castiel, on the other hand, remains completely oblivious to Dean’s unease. He stares at his glass of whiskey as if it holds all the answers to the meaning of life, and he says slowly, speech just the slightest bit slurred, “That’s so sad. I mean. That’s ah… that’s even sadder. Not trying at all just because you don’t want to take the risk? That’s terrible...” he trails off, falling into thoughtful silence. Dean watches him closely, gaze intent. There is a strange look on his face.

A moment passes. Then, Castiel looks up at Dean, his face serious, and he meets Dean’s gaze earnestly as he says, “I think- I think you should just try anyway, Dean. If you really love fries so much.”

There is a beat of awkward silence before Dean clears his throat uneasily.

Not meeting Castiel’s eyes, he says, “Yeah, well. Anyway… You know what I was thinking? I was thinking- can demons go into the ocean? Cos like there’s a lot of salt in the sea, Isn’t that right? Like a whole lot of salt. So. If I went skinny dipping in the Dead Sea- would it be like swimming in acid?”

Castiel’s brows furrow. He appears to be giving Dean’s question very serious thought.

He says musingly, “I never thought about that before.” Then something occurs to him, and he raises a finger as he says, “But technically… technically, the Dead Sea is a salt lake, not an ocean… The name is a misnom- misno- It’s a wrong name,” he finishes lamely.

Dean glares at him. “Well, Dead Lake sounds _stupid_.” After a beat, he adds, “Anyway. That’s not the point of my question.”

“The Dead Sea has a sali- salini- saltiness level of 34.2%,” Castiel says matter-of-factly and Sam wonders how he can muck up the words ‘salinity level’ and yet somehow recite the exact figures like he’s quoting straight from a Wikipedia entry. The universe (and the inside of Castiel’s mind) is a strange, strange place.

Dean stares at Castiel with a flummoxed expression. “Whaaat?” he says slowly, “What does that even mean?”

Castiel’s answer is beautiful in its simplicity. “It’s very salty,” he informs Dean, who nods sadly before heaving a deep sigh and saying, “Okay. No Dead Sea skinny dipping for me, I guess.”

A thought occurs to Castiel. Musingly, he says, “Maybe we should try using it for our holy water. It might be, uh, extra effective.”

Sam isn't so sure about the effectiveness of dissolved salt, but Dean stares at Castiel, looking as if his mind was just blown.

“You know what would be awesome?” he says slowly. “Holy salt water grenades. That… that would be awesome.”

After a moment, he adds, “Don’t tell Sam I told you that. I’ll never hear the end of it.”

Pulling the bottle of bourbon towards him, Dean pours himself a full glass and downs it in one gulp.

“C’mon,” he tells Cas as he slams his empty glass back down onto the table and stands up, wobbling a little. “We can still speak in straight sentences. That means we aren’t drunk enough. Time to watch the new Star Trek movies. The rules are…okay, there’s just one rule this time. Drink every time there’s lens flare.”

Cas follows him to the couch, where Dean proceeds to put the movie on. “That doesn’t sound too bad,” Cas says and he pours himself a glass of bourbon in preparation.

Dean smirks knowingly. “Oh, you’re in for an education.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The moral of this story? Drink responsibly, kids! ;D jk, jk. Go crazy.


	10. Disney Life Lessons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean finally gets to eat his pie, Sam loses a game of gay chicken of which he isn’t even a participant, and Castiel discovers the joys of Disney, to Dean’s great dismay. It turns out to be very educational.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please accept my deepest apologies for the extremely long delay in updates. The last part of this chapter was a complete pain in the ass to write, and I struggled with it like someone trying to give birth to quintuplets. I’m still not entirely happy with the finished product, but I figured I’d just get it out so that I could move on.
> 
> BTW, for those not in the know, gay chicken is a game in which two straight people try to out-gay each other until one of them gives up. It does not actually involve any actual homosexual avians, sadly, though in extreme cases, an entirely different kind of cock may come into play ;DDDD
> 
> Yes, sometimes I find myself very amusing even though I suspect the rest of the world wants to brutally murder me. Sorry.
> 
> Oh and just a warning- Dean behaves like a major asshole in the last part of this chapter. But he gets better.

The next morning, Sam finds Dean and Cas slumped on the couch together, arms clumsily flung over each other. Sam’s eyebrows rise as he takes in the sight before him.

Dean’s head is pillowed on Castiel’s shoulder and he is snoring with obnoxious loudness. Castiel appears to be equally dead to the world. His chest is moving up and down gently with every slow breath and there is a slight smile on his face; he looks surprisingly peaceful and content. It is rather startling to see him like this- Sam hasn’t seen Castiel sleep before, even when the angel had been briefly human. And now here he is, fully angelic again and sleeping ever so sweetly on the Bunker’s new couch. It’s pretty ironic, when you think about it.

 _Can angels even dream?_ Sam wonders. Well, if they can, judging by the expression on Castiel’s face, it must be a happy one.

Sam shakes his head wryly. The sheer amount of alcohol it must have taken to get him and Dean to this stage must be staggering. Sam wouldn’t be surprised if it was an amount that would have killed a normal human being a few hundred times over. If someone had told him a year or so ago that he’d find an angel and demon passed out dead drunk on a couch in the makeshift living room of their secret underground base, Sam would have laughed his ass off.

Sam briefly considers waking them up, but as he looks at Dean and Castiel sleeping, for once at peace with the world, Sam finds himself reluctant to break this strangely domestic tableau. The sheer simple _… human-ness_ of the scene is striking and he watches them quietly, some heavy emotion rising in his chest. The light of the television screen bathes their faces in a soft white glow, and as Sam watches, Dean tries to burrow his head further into the crook of Castiel’s neck. Castiel doesn’t wake up, but he snorts softly and his head lolls back slightly to accommodate Dean.

The two of them look… kind of adorable, actually. In a sleepy, pathetically drunk kind of way.

If Dean had been awake and in full possession of his faculties, he would undoubtedly be yowling in mortification at the awkwardness of their position and trying his best to jerk away. Sam’s brother isn’t exactly one for touchy feely moments, and he’d undoubtedly be horrified to find himself draped all over his best friend like a particularly affectionate octopus. But what Dean doesn’t know won’t hurt him, and Sam decides to let him enjoy this little bit of peace while it lasts.

Something in Dean, no matter what he has become, must recognize in Castiel a feeling of safety, of trust and blind faith. Dean would never admit it, but he obviously cares deeply for their strange angelic friend, and watching them sleep, Sam thinks back about his initial hunch when he first decided to get Cas to become Dean’s guardian. He had been acting on a gut feeling, but now he finds himself wondering- could this truly be the key? Could Castiel, of all people, be the key to Dean’s redemption?

But this sort of wishful thinking seems too far-fetched and fanciful to Sam. As he turns to walk away, he tells himself not to be silly. They’re not living in some kind of fairytale where the magical healing power of friendship brings about miracles and peace and joy to the world as unicorns frolic about in sunlit meadows and small furry woodland creatures burst into spontaneous song. No, they’re living in the real world, and if life has taught him anything, it’s that the world just doesn’t work that way.

But maybe, maybe sometimes… Sam wishes that it would.

Minus the unicorns and singing woodland creatures, of course. That’d be a little too much.

 

~~\---~~

 

If there is any lingering awkwardness from waking up to find themselves entangled together, Dean and Cas are definitely over it by the time Sam next sees them.

Dean is looking disturbingly chipper as he comes walking up to Sam, Cas trailing quietly behind him. “Hey Sammy,” Dean says sweetly, and the smile on his face can only be described as angelic, ironically.

Sam raises an eyebrow at him. There can only be one reason for Dean behaving so nicely.

“For the last time, Dean,” he says wearily, “If I hear the word ‘pie’ again-”

Bringing his right arm up, Dean presents Sam with his and Castiel’s chained hands. “C’mon, Sammy, I’ve been good, haven’t I? Take ’em off, will ya?” He smiles entreatingly at Sam, his face the very picture of innocence.

Sam frowns at him and folds his arms. So this is what Dean’s little angel of light and goodness routine is all about. He should have known, really. What’s surprising is that it took so long for Dean to bring this up.

“It’s not the end of the month yet, is it?” he says, stone-faced, and watches as the smile slowly falls from Dean’s face. Behind Dean, Castiel watches them silently, his face blank. His expression is not disapproving, but it’s certainly not approving either.

Dean is staring at Sam like he’s being some kind of unreasonable and overbearing monster. The look of gut-punched betrayal on his face is worse than any amount of anger. Sam feels a surge of guilt, but he ruthlessly squashes it down. He has to be firm with Dean, he tells himself sternly. Dean has to learn to take Sam’s threats seriously. It’s the only way he’ll learn how to behave. Just look at what happened before when Sam was too soft on him. This is all for Dean’s own good, and no matter how much of a villain it makes Sam feel like, or how much it causes Dean to hate him, Sam has to do it for his brother’s sake. That’s what the old, human Dean would have wanted him to do.

However this doesn’t stop the wretched constricting feeling in Sam’s chest- he is under no illusions that Dean doesn’t hate his guts for all of this- and he wonders if this was how Dean felt, back when he tricked Sam into letting Gadreel possess him. Sometimes, he tells himself, you have to hurt the ones you love in order to help them. But it doesn’t make him a whole lot better.

Instead of allowing himself to dwell on the hurt expression on Dean’s face, Sam forces himself to continue, tone deliberately light, “Anyway, aren’t you and Cas best buds now? BFFs forever, that sorta thing? Staying up all night together, painting each other’s toenails, gossiping about boys, weaving friendship bracelets?” Castiel does not react beyond a slight rise of his eyebrows but Dean throws Sam a vicious glare. He is obviously seething with barely repressed anger.

Sam lets his gaze drift down to Dean and Castiel’s handcuffed hands before flicking back up to meet Dean’s furious gaze. He remarks with a wry twist of his lips, “Just think of the cuffs as a more... metallic and... literal sort of friendship bracelet.”

With an obvious effort of will, Dean marshals his stormy expression back into something more pleasant. “What happened to time off for good behavior?” he wheedles, “C’mon, Sam, I need to stretch my legs. I need some fresh air. Being cooped up all day in the Bunker is driving me mad.” He pauses for a beat before saying pointedly, “Even Crowley got a break sometimes.”

Sam gives him a flinty-eyed glare. “Don’t talk to me about Crowley,” he says testily and turns to walk away, but before he can take a step, Dean has reached out to grab hold of his shoulder.

Dean looks at him beseechingly. “Please, I just want to go out for a bit. Get some pie. Smell the grass, see the sky.” His tone is dry as he says, “I think I’ve forgotten what it looks like already.”

Sam gives him a thoroughly unimpressed look. “Har har, very funny, Dean.”

Dean looks back at Sam, his lips pursed. “Don’t I deserve a little break?” he says unhappily.

Castiel finally decides to join the conversation. Clearing his throat, he says somewhat awkwardly, “Dean has been behaving himself very well lately. Perhaps, we could have a small excursion so that he can get some pie? As a reward for good behavior…” he trails off, giving Sam a meaningful look.

Dean flashes Castiel a small, grateful smile and nods enthusiastically, his eyes hopeful.

Sam considers it. It wouldn’t hurt… perhaps some positive reinforcement would even be helpful. Besides, it might make Dean finally stop going on about pie, which frankly would be a godsend for everyone’s nerves.

Sam sighs reluctantly before saying, “Oh, very well. I guess we can pop out for a quick meal.”

His decision has nothing to do with the vague underlying guilt still churning in his stomach. Nope. Nothing whatsoever.

Dean’s eyes light up and a big grin slides onto his face. He looks like a child who has just been told that Santa Claus is real and Christmas has come early- _the pony’s waiting for you by the fireplace now, sweetie, go right ahead_.

But the look of excitement drops right off his face the instant Sam says, “But the cuffs stay on.”

Dean stares at him in disbelief. “What the hell, dude?” he bursts out incredulously, “We can’t walk out there looking like some- some _BDSM experiment_ gone wrong.”

Sam gives him a firm, no-nonsense look. “The cuffs stay on. Take it or leave it, Dean.”

Dean huffs angrily and the glare he directs at Sam could have cut through steel, but he falls silent and does not protest any further.

 

\---

 

They end up in some place in Illinois which Dean insists on because of some reviews he read on the internet or something. He has obviously had way too much free time on his hands if he’s been researching pie places. If Dean had half as much enthusiasm when doing research for their cases, their efficiency rates would probably double. But well… that was back in the old days, anyway. Sam works alone now.

Dean had initially insisted on driving the Impala because he wasn’t “leaving baby behind” but Sam simply gave him the bitchface™ and said, “Dean, we are not driving for days just so you can eat some pie,” after which Dean sulkily allowed Castiel to place his hands on both himself and Sam. After a brief sensation of displacement and a faint flutter of wings, Sam finds himself standing outside a rather rundown diner.

Sam stares at the shop front in dismay. It has obviously seen better days. “ _This_ is your great pie place? Some hole in the wall small town diner?” he asks Dean. “Seriously dude, we could go anywhere in the world, and this is what you choose? Yet another cheap diner? Don’t you have enough of these?”

“Hey, don’t knock it till you’ve tried it,” Dean says, “This place is underrated. Apparently, they make a mean cherry pie.” His face splits into a huge grin and he waggles his eyebrows suggestively at Sam as he says, “I love me some sweet cherry pie.”

There is a playful glint in his eyes.

Sam gives Dean an unamused look and says, “If you start singing the damn song, Cas is bringing us right back.”

Dean’s mouth snaps shut, and his lips turn downwards into an unhappy pout.

Sam pushes the door to the diner open with a tinkle of bells. He enters, followed shortly by Dean and Castiel. The lunch crowd is already gone, and there are only a few patrons still in the diner, all of them probably regulars. They turn to glance at the newcomers and Sam can see the moment they notice the cuffs. Their eyes go wide, and all around the diner, conversations abruptly trail off. For a moment, there is nothing but pin-drop silence. Then, the whispers start up.

Sam sneaks a quick glance back at Dean, but his face is strangely blank. Dean is looking around the diner lazily and the expression on his face is almost bored. He gives no sign of having noticed all the unabashed gawking.

That won’t be the case for long though; Sam knows how much Dean hates being treated like a circus freak. His temper, never the best even when he was still human, has definitely taken a turn for the worse ever since he got the Mark.

It’s not like Dean is going to murder people for looking at him funny nowadays, or at least that is what Sam hopes, but he cannot help but feel rather uneasy about all the blatant stares directed at Dean and Castiel’s cuffed hands. Visions of Dean going to stabby town with a diner fork flash through his mind. Well, there’s nothing Sam can do about this situation. It’s not like he can drape a jacket over Dean and Castiel’s hands to hide the cuffs. All he can do is hope that Dean doesn’t decide to show his irritation in a manner that goes beyond an angry tirade.

To head off the inevitable explosion, Sam hurriedly ushers Dean and Castiel towards the furthermost booth in a deserted corner of the diner, trying to surreptitiously interpose his body between them and the curious onlookers, who have now started to crane their necks to get a better look at the strange newcomers. God only knows what’s going through their minds. Pair of strangers, both men, handcuffed together? The _scandal_. Dean and Castiel are probably the most exciting things to happen to this sleepy little town in ages. No wonder the townsfolk are all gawping at them like they’re the newest attraction at the zoo.

They slide into the booth and a waitress comes bustling up, a big smile on her face. She’s young, probably barely out of high school, working during the holidays, and obviously still fresh enough that the job hasn’t quite managed to wear away her perkiness.

Perkiness. God, that’s about the last thing they need today. Sam just barely manages to stifle his groan.

“Afternoon, fellas!” she says brightly, “My name is Mandy, what can I get you guys toda—” Her eyes drift downwards, and she stops short, the sunny smile dropping off her face as she spots the handcuffs. Her mouth hangs opens in shock. As the silence stretches on awkwardly, Sam can practically see her mind going through all the possibilities. Escaped convicts? Bunch of axe-murdering psychopaths? Strange sexual deviants with a creepy handcuff fetish?

Sam does not groan, bury his head in his hands, run away, or do all of the above at once, but it is a near thing. Instead, he forces himself to put on his best poker face- thank god he has had so many years of practice lying to people- and composes a story in his head. It goes something like this: _Oh yeah, the handcuffs? Funny story there. You see, these two idiots accepted this crazy dare from their friends, you won’t believe how stupid it was…_ and so on and so forth. It’s not exactly his most believable lie, but it’s probably watertight enough to stand up to scrutiny for however long it takes them to scarf down their food and be gone.

Sam opens his mouth and prepares to brazenly lie his way through all of this, only to be forestalled by Dean. Dean is wearing his classic lady-killer smile, and he is at his charming best as he looks up at the waitress. He chuckles lightly and says, “Hey Mandy, you’re probably wondering about these cuffs, aren’t you?” He winks at her, still smiling winsomely, and Sam can see where this is going. Trust Dean to try to schmooze his way out of this. But considering Dean’s track record with the ladies, this might actually work.

The waitress giggles nervously, cheeks flushing a faint pink. “Uh. Yeah. Kinda,” she admits shyly.

Sam likes to think that he’s a pretty damn good at keeping a straight face, but Dean’s next words make his mouth drop open in shock. “This is my partner, Cas,” Dean says casually. Smiling lazily, he takes Castiel’s cuffed hand in his, curling their fingers together. There is a spark of mischief in his eyes.

Sam stares at him, aghast. _What the hell is Dean playing at?_

With a great effort of will, he manages to school his expression into something more neutral. Thank goodness the waitress is too busy staring at Dean and Cas to notice Sam’s slip in composure.

Dean continues on blithely, either unaware or uncaring of Sam’s horror. “We just got hitched,” he informs the waitress. “Wanted to celebrate a bit, try out some new things, y’know.” He rattles the handcuffs and turns to wink saucily at Castiel, who is staring at Dean blankly. “Turns out Cas here was so excited, he got a bit carried away.” Smirking, Dean nudges at Castiel. “Isn’t that right, baby?”

Castiel stares back at him, face impassive, and after a moment of achingly long silence, he finally seems to realize that an answer is required of him. Brows furrowed slightly, he says slowly, “Yes… sweetie,” and he might as well be a robot for all the emotion that has been injected into his tone.

Watching this is just _painful_. Sam thinks that maybe dying on the spot might be more merciful than having to witness this train wreck of secondhand embarrassment. He wants to bury his head in the sand like an ostrich until it all goes away. If this is Dean’s way of getting revenge on Sam for not letting him out of the cuffs, as Sam suspects it is, he must admit that it is working beautifully.

Dean beams at Castiel as if the angel had just said some terribly romantic thing to him, before turning back to the waitress, who is staring at them, mouth still slightly open. There is a crooked grin on his lips as he says, “So now the key’s gone, and we’re gonna have to go to a locksmith to get the cuffs off.” Chuckling sheepishly, he lifts his shoulders in a shrug, as if to say ‘ _what can you do?_ ’

 _Any moment now_ , Sam thinks, _any moment, she’s gonna call Dean on his bluff and we’re gonna get thrown out of this diner and Dean won’t get to eat his damn cherry pie. Or worse, she’ll actually believe him, and she’ll run away screaming about the two crazy gay men in the BDSM handcuffs ‘cause they’re all so open-minded about homosexuality in small towns like this. Maybe she’ll even call the cops on us. Well, this is just wonderful._

But the waitress just smiles at Dean and Castiel as if they are the most adorable things ever. She looks utterly charmed.

“Oh dear,” she says earnestly, “That must be so embarrassing! But uh, congratulations! You guys make such a cute couple.” She smiles at them brightly, and Dean returns her smile, but Castiel’s expression is as blank as ever. However, after a few seconds of stilted silence, he jerks up and the extremely forced smile that comes onto his face looks about as natural as Pamela Anderson’s Baywatch boobs. It is painfully obvious that Dean had just kicked him under the table.

“Thank you,” Cas says woodenly, “We are very happy,” and Dean gives him a sappy little grin.

Sam has to fight to stop himself from snorting at this farce, but Mandy the waitress is completely taken in. Smiling, she asks, “Already been on the honeymoon?”

“Oh yes,” Dean replies, and his smile is terribly smug as he says airily, “We’ve been to all sorts of places. In fact, we were in Paris just the other week. Visited the Louvre, and saw the Mona Lisa.” He pretends to sigh happily. “It was beautiful…” he turns to Castiel with a smile that is about a billion megawatts of cheesy, “but not quite as beautiful as my darling here, of course.”

Sam grits his teeth and tells himself to be strong.

“Awww,” gushes Mandy. There are practically little hearts in her eyes. “You guys are so sweet!”

She whips out her pen and notepad and asks brightly, “So what will you be having today?”

Dean’s face lights up in genuine glee. He orders a bacon cheeseburger, a chocolate milkshake and begins listing off what seems like every pie on the menu. It looks like he’s determined to take advantage of the fact that he can no longer get sick from over-eating, the horrible glutton.

“Wow, big pie-lover, huh,” Mandy remarks as she pens down Dean’s rapid fire orders. She doesn’t know the half of it.

To finish, Dean rounds it all off with a triumphant “one of your specialty cherry pies, please.”

Mandy pauses in jotting down Dean’s orders. “I’m afraid we’re all out of cherry pie,” she says apologetically.

Dean looks crestfallen, like someone just kicked his favorite puppy. It’s downright embarrassing that a grown man should look so pouty. “I was really looking forward to that,” he says morosely.

“Sorry about that. Perhaps I could interest you in some blueberry pie?” Mandy says, “It’s really good. Some say it’s even better than our cherry pie.” She smiles at him encouragingly.

Dean considers it for a while, but he seems to have been mollified. “Okay, I’ll have one of those,” he says, winsome smile once again firmly in place.

“Just a cobb salad for me, thanks,” Sam says.

The waitress looks expectantly at Cas, but Cas simply stares back at her in bewilderment. Dean hastily comes to his rescue. “He’s good. We’re, uh, sharing.”

“Ohhh,” Mandy says in realization, “Right. Of course you guys are sharing. Nobody could finish that much food on their own!” She giggles. “Silly me!”

She lists off their orders one last time, before leaving, still smiling sunnily. There is practically a bounce in her step. She seems to be utterly enamored with the wacky gay couple. It’s kind of disturbing. Watching her go, Sam has to shake away some unpleasant memories of one Becky Rosen.

Once she is out of earshot, Sam turns to Dean, eyes narrowed. “Dean,” he says dangerously, “You wanna explain what that was all about?”

Dean smirks. “ _Lying_ , Sam,” he drawls, “It’s called _lying_.” He winks. “It’s what people do when they say things that aren’t true,” he says slowly, as if he’s explaining something to a particularly dim-witted toddler.

Sam grits his teeth and struggles to keep his voice to a low hiss. This is no place to make a scene. “Why, of all the ruses to choose from, would you choose the one in which you and Cas are in some big gay marriage slash BDSM relationship?” He glares at Dean. “Is this all some big joke to you? Stop trying to annoy us, Dean! It’s stupid. And childish!”

“Aww, am I making you uncomfortable, Sammy?” Dean says tauntingly. He grabs Castiel around the waist to pull the angel closer. “Maybe I just want to show some love to my baby daddy. That a crime?”

As Sam gapes at him, speechless, Castiel raises an eyebrow at Dean. “Baby daddy,” he repeats dryly.

Dean grins. “Yeah, babycakes. You like it?”

“Not as much as I like you, sweetcheeks,” Cas answers, face straight.

Dean’s eyes narrow, but then his lips turn up into a smirk and he replies with the jaunty rejoinder of, “No, I like you _more_ , huggybear.”

“I like you the _most_ , honeybunny,” Cas declares solemnly, and his eyes are flinty with a silent challenge.

“No, _I_ like you the most, angelface,” Dean insists, staring straight back at Castiel firmly, and Sam recognizes the stubborn ‘I am not going to back down’ look on his face.

Castiel retorts with, “That is a lie, sugarpie.”

Dean mock-pouts at him. “No, I promise you it’s absolutely true, Cassie-poo.”

It is the most disgustingly saccharine exchange of false endearments that Sam has ever seen. If Sam doesn’t stop them now, they’re probably going to continue trying to one-up each other with increasingly nauseating nicknames for the next few hours.

“Alright,” Sam says dryly, “I’m gonna stop you right there. I think I just threw up in my mouth a little.”

Dean turns a withering glare upon Sam. “I’m sorry, is our epic love freaking you out?” he says with mock concern. His voice is practically dripping with disdain. “What’s the problem, Sam? You don’t like it when a man shows his love for another man?”

Sam glares at him. “I’m not homophobic!”

Dean raises an eyebrow and says airily, “Why so defensive, Sam? I never said you were.”

“Dean, you asshole,” Sam hisses, “You can stop your big game of gay chicken now. The waitress is gone. There’s nobody around to hear us. You can stop pretending.”

Dean just smirks at Sam. “Are _you_ chicken, Sammy?” he says as Sam glares at him coldly. “What’s wrong? This makes you feel uncomfortable? Am I grossing you out? _Awww,_ poor Sammy...” he drawls, and Sam is reminded of just how much of a patronizing asshole Dean can be sometimes.

Sniggering, Dean offers his cheek up to Cas. He taps it with a finger as he says sweetly, “Give us a kiss, babydoll.” It seems that he is absolutely determined to piss Sam off.

Cas stares at Dean quizzically, as if wondering whether Dean could truly mean it, but Dean nods encouragingly at him and says pointedly, “Still waiting on that kiss, babe.”

Castiel promptly grabs Dean’s face and kisses him straight on the lips. Eyes going wide, Dean flails backwards. “Cas!” he cries, horrified, “Not on the mouth! I meant the cheek! _The cheek!_ ”

Castiel stares at him blankly. “Oh. I’m sorry, Dean,” he says. He grabs Dean’s face and tries to plant a kiss on his cheek, as Dean struggles away, glaring furiously. If he was a cat, he’d be arching his back now, hissing, fur all standing up.

“I thought you said you wanted a kiss, Dean,” Cas states matter-of-factly and Sam sniggers.

“Not as good at acting as you think you are, huh?” Sam says with a mocking smirk, “Now who’s the chicken, Dean? What, you not quite as secure in your sexuality as you’d like to be?”

Dean shoots him a murderous glare and growls, “I’ll show you who’s chicken.”

He grabs Castiel and presses his lips to the mouth of the startled angel.

At first, they’re just clumsily mashing their lips together as Dean glares sideways at Sam, but then Castiel seems to get with the program, and at least some of his experience with Meg must have paid off, because he starts kissing back, rather _too_ enthusiastically, and it rapidly escalates. Sam looks on in horrified fascination as their kiss begins turning into something that really makes him feel quite uncomfortable.

 _Wow_ , Sam thinks as he watches Dean attempt to find Castiel’s tonsils with his tongue, _This is really taking stubbornness to a whole new level._

The two of them are going at it like teenagers, all hot and heavy-like, and Sam is starting to feel pretty damn awkward. Public displays of affection have never been his thing. The fact that it’s his brother fake-making-out with their mutual good friend is just adding a whole new dimension of awkward to all the awkward that is already there.

He clears his throat loudly, but Dean and Castiel give no indication of hearing him. Sam is about ready to admit defeat, and maybe even forcibly drag the two of them apart, when the waitress appears with their food.

“Wow,” she says to Sam, eyebrows raised, “They really can’t keep their hands off each other, can they?”

“Yeah,” Sam says dryly. “I can’t bring them anywhere. It’s terrible. You should have seen them on the honeymoon. It was like dealing with two amorous octopi.”

Dean and Castiel jerk apart guiltily, and both of them are blushing bright red. Sam doesn’t think he has ever seen Dean’s face quite so red before, not even that time when Sam had been nine and he had accidentally walked in on his brother when Dean had been having some alone time with a copy of Busty Asian Beauties.

The waitress coos at Dean and Castiel. “Oh my god, you two are just so adorable!” she declares and the scary thing is that she appears to be utterly sincere.

She sets their food down on the table as Cas and Dean attempt to look everywhere except each other. She reveals the last dish with a cheery declaration of “Surprise! Look what I have here.” It is Dean’s coveted cherry pie, which she places down on their table with a flourish and a wink.

“Cherry pie for the newlyweds!” she says brightly. “Cook was gonna bring this one back for her kids but after I told her about you guys, she agreed to give it to you. She said you should have something nice to celebrate your special occasion. So here you are! It’s on the house.” She smiles at them with a surprising amount of warmth. “Congratulations from all of us here at Mel’s!”

Embarrassment abruptly forgotten, Dean beams at her. His grateful smile could have powered a thousand solar panels. “Awesome!” he declares, dragging the pie dish towards himself.

“You’re the best, Mandy. Thank you so much,” he tells the waitress sincerely and a shy smile comes onto her face.

“Anything for the happy couple!” she says and with a cheery, “Do enjoy!” she leaves them to their meal.

Dean wastes no time in digging in, and a spoonful of pie is already on the way to his lips before Mandy has taken two steps away. The orgasmic look of pleasure on his face as he chews and then swallows is almost indecent, as is the moan he lets out. Castiel gives him an appalled look, and steals some of the cherry pie for himself.

Sam rolls his eyes. Looks like Dean’s lie actually worked out for him in the end. Who would have thought it?

For the next half an hour or so, Dean proceeds to stuff his face and consume approximately half his body weight in pie, having ordered five more pies from an astonished Mandy after finishing off the ones he already ordered. Salad long finished, Sam watches with mild disgust as Dean shovels food down his throat, an expression of pure bliss on his face. Cas, despite all his complaints about food tasting like disgusting molecules, nevertheless takes every chance he can get to appropriate Dean’s pie, and he responds to Dean’s possessive glares with a sassy, “You did say we were sharing, Dean.”

Eventually, Sam cuts Dean off from ordering anything more, because he wants to get back to the Bunker sometime within the next few days, because his wallet has a limit, and mostly because people are really starting to stare. It’s one thing to be wacky gay men with strange bedroom practices; it’s another thing to have an apparently bottomless stomach.

After they return to the bunker, Dean well and truly sated and grinning idiotically like he’s drunk on pure happiness, Sam decides to count their lunch excursion as a success. After all, nobody died and Dean finally got to eat his pie. That’s a minor victory, as far as Sam is concerned.

 

\---

 

Yawning loudly, Dean lets himself indulge in a good long satisfying stretch that makes his joints pop. His stomach feels ridiculously full. Dean never thought he’d miss feeling so terribly bloated, but damn, it’s a terrific feeling. Closing his eyes and smiling lazily, he stretches out on the couch, luxuriating in the feeling of utter contentment.

“You pick a movie,” he tells Cas. He’s inclined to be generous today and let the angel choose what they watch. After all it’s not like Cas is going to pick porn or something. His taste in entertainment is actually fairly decent these days.

He lets himself drift as Cas goes about setting up the new film they’re going to watch, and maybe he even dozes off for a little while, but his eyes shoot open when a very familiar theme starts to play. As he stares at the white castle logo that has appeared on their television screen, Dean begins to regret his earlier generosity.

“Dude,” he says, “Disney? Seriously?”

Castiel’s face falls. “You don’t want to watch this, Dean?” he says, and it should be criminal how adorably plaintive he looks. Dean immediately feels like he just took a beloved squeaky toy away from a three-legged, charmingly floppy-eared puppy. He hastily backtracks. “No, I mean- yes. But uh- whatever. Fine. Let’s just watch it.”

Maybe he’s setting himself up for an evening of torture, but the smile on Castiel’s face makes up for it, at least a little bit.

Then the film starts up, and Dean realizes it is the Little Mermaid, and he begins rapidly reconsidering his life choices.

This film had made him very uncomfortable when he was watching it on a motel TV with Sammy when Sammy was nine, waiting for their dad to come back, and not just because the girl had been half naked with clam shells on her boobs. It had struck some particularly unpleasant chords, what with the over-controlling father, and the heroine who just wanted to have a normal happy human life. The only reason Dean hadn’t turned it off was because Sam had obviously been enjoying it, but it had left a pretty sour taste in his mouth.

As Dean finds, this repeat viewing hasn’t improved the experience any. If anything, it has gotten even worse. He rapidly graduates from mild irritation to straight up intense loathing.

Ariel sings about wanting to be ‘Part of Your World’ and Dean’s blood pressure begins to rise dangerously. Halfway through the film, aquatic creatures try to encourage the prince to ‘Kiss the Girl’ through subliminal song and Dean’s blood pressure really starts to soar. By the time they reach the end, Dean is about fit to burst from bottled up anger.

Arms crossed, he sits and stews in dark anger as the heroes defeat Ursula, and King Triton turns Ariel human so that she can be with Prince Eric. Castiel is staring at the screen in rapture, utterly captivated, which is pretty much what he has been doing the entire film. As Ariel and the prince kiss and the screen fades to black, he makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a sniffle.

Dean squints at him through narrowed eyes and realization dawns as he notices that Castiel’s eyes are looking distinctly wet. “Are you… crying?” He stares at Castiel incredulously and angry disbelief makes his voice curt as he says, “Seriously, dude?”

Castiel hastily averts his face, and says somewhat nasally, “That ending scene was beautiful. I thought the reprise of the earlier song was especially touching.” He sniffs again.

“Wow,” breathes Dean, “Just… _wow_.” He shakes his head in disgust. “The Little Mermaid made an Angel of the Lord cry. Walt Disney must be _so proud_.”

Castiel glares weakly at him. “It is a very moving story. I like it very much,” he says defensively.

Dean’s eyebrows go up. For some reason, that just pisses him off. A small part of his brain is telling him that he’s being ridiculous and his anger is irrational in the extreme, but Dean is too furious to heed it. He doesn’t know why- maybe it's in part because of what happened this afternoon at the diner, an extremely foolish move on Dean's part that he has now come to regret rather strongly- but the thought of the tender smile on Castiel's face as he watched Ariel and Eric embrace just makes him so angry.

He says, voice cutting, “You know this is all just kid-friendly, sanitized _bullshit_ right? In the original fairy tale, the little mermaid didn’t marry the prince and live happily ever after with him as seafood platters serenaded them with catchy love songs.”

He knows he’s being kind of an asshole, but the words keep spilling out, driven by some strange twisting emotion inside him. “No, she died alone and heartbroken after the prince fell in love with another woman. The woman who he thought saved him, when it was really the little mermaid. And the clincher? The sea witch gave the little mermaid a chance to live if she killed the prince, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. So she just let herself disintegrate into sea foam and _die_.”

Sneering, Dean says coldly, “Real cheery stuff there. Good, wholesome fun for the family. But I guess Disney didn’t think that was appropriate. No, the kiddies need a happy ending, because that’s how life _really_ works.” He lets out a bark of bitter laughter. “The good guys always win and nobody gets hurt, only the villains. Everyone always finds true love and lives happily ever after because,” he spits venomously, “ _that’s what happens in real life_.”

Snorting loudly in disgust, he mutters, “I don’t know why parents actually let their children watch this shit.”

Cas stares at him like he thinks Dean has maybe gone a little off his rocker, but his voice is annoyingly calm as he says, “You’re wrong, Dean. The story did not end that way.”

Dean glares at him. “What do you mean I’m wrong?” he says angrily, “I’m not making this stuff up. She really died. Go read the damn thing if you don’t believe me.”

Cas just looks at him mildly, though Dean wishes he would show some kind of reaction, anger, shock, despair, whatever. Instead, he says evenly, “I am familiar with the original story, Dean. Yes, the fairy tale did indeed end with the little mermaid turning into sea foam. But she didn’t die. She became a daughter of the air, and she would earn her own soul by doing good deeds and eventually rise up into the Kingdom of God. That was the real ending, Dean,” he finishes and his lips lift in a gentle smile as he looks at Dean.

Dean has no reply to that. He just glares at Cas darkly, wishing he could wipe the smile off Castiel’s face. Some dark mixture of anger and hopeless despair is churning inside him, and he hates it. He hates this feeling. Why the fuck won’t it go away?

Castiel seems to take Dean’s silence as license to continue. “The original fairytale has always been one of my favorite of all the tales that humanity has come up with over the centuries. Do you know why that is so?”

Dean glares at him and snaps, “I’m sure you’re about to enlighten me.”

Castiel ignores him. There is some heavy emotion in his eyes as he says, “At the core of the story is Ariel’s willingness to sacrifice everything for the one she loves. She would give up her life so that the man she loves could be happy, even if he doesn’t love her back. There is nothing worth mocking about that.” His gaze is strangely piercing and Dean has to look away, unable to bring himself to meet Castiel’s eyes.

Castiel continues on quietly, “Maybe you think The Little Mermaid is just a silly children’s tale, Dean, but there is a fundamental truth in it- the search for happiness is fraught with difficulties and suffering and sacrifice, and maybe you can’t ever get what you really want… but in the end, there is always still a chance for a happy ending.” He pauses before saying musingly, “It is one of the truest depictions of the human condition I have come across.”

And Dean sees red. How dare Castiel? How dare he talk about love and happiness and the human condition like he actually understands those things? No, Castiel has no fucking clue. He never had. He has no idea what Dean’s been through, what Dean feels every day, knowing he can’t ever have what he really wants. Six friggin’ years and he’s still as much of a clueless idiot as the day Dean first met him- the unfeeling, inhuman creature that saw nothing wrong with letting an innocent woman’s eyes get burnt out.

He snaps his head up to meet Castiel’s gaze and bites out viciously, anger making his words spiteful and cruel, “What do _you_ know of the human condition? You’re an _angel_. You don’t even have a soul. You may play at being human with me and Sam, but really, you know you’re nothing but a false pretender.”

But Castiel’s gaze doesn’t waver. He doesn’t even flinch at Dean’s deliberately cruel words. Instead, he looks at Dean intently, as if Dean is some kind of puzzle he is trying to understand, and that makes Dean even madder.

Snarling, he goes in for the jugular. “Even when you turned human, you just came running along to me like some little lost puppy begging for whatever scraps of guidance I’d throw you,” Dean hisses and he watches Castiel’s seemingly unshakeable composure slip for the barest of seconds as his eyes flash and a fleeting expression of hurt crosses his face. Dean smirks in malicious joy. _Finally_.

“You’re an emotionless, unthinking robot, Castiel,” Dean says with dark relish, something base and cruel inside him delighting in inflicting pain on Cas. Maybe he really is a monster. “And without us around to tell you what to do, you wouldn’t even know how to _feel._ ” He bares his teeth at Castiel in a jeering, malicious smile.

But this time, Castiel doesn’t react. He looks placidly at Dean, face serene, almost as if he’s decided to be the better man in all of this and he’s deliberately allowing Dean to lash out at him. “Maybe you’re right, Dean,” he says, "I don’t have a soul. Maybe I’ll never be able to feel like humans do. Not truly. But I understand, far more than you think I do.”

Dean snarls viciously, and his fingers clench into fists. The maddening anger threatens to overwhelm him. For a moment, he thinks about hitting Castiel, about smashing his fist into Castiel’s serene face to force him into showing some kind of reaction- but then something in Castiel’s words clicks and abruptly, understanding dawns.

This… now this is something he can use.

He deliberately allows Castiel to see the triumphant realization spreading across his features, accompanied by a mocking grin. “Aww…I see,” he says, tone sickly sweet. “Is that why you like The Little Mermaid so much? Because you want to be human too? Does the littlest angel in Heaven wants a nice shiny human soul? You wanna be _part of our world_ , Cas?” he asks with a cruel twist of his lips.

Cas remains silent, and though his face is impassive, betraying nothing of his emotions, he noticeably does not deny Dean’s words.

Dean smiles nastily, and he says, “Well, hate to break it to you, Ariel, but it’s not all that it’s cracked up to be. Being human _sucks_. You get born, you suffer through life, you die, and if you’re one of the lucky ones, you get to go up to the big frathouse in the sky where you relive all the choice highlights of your life on endless mind-numbing repeat. Some kind of eternal reward,” he laughs bitterly, “What’s the point, really? No wonder all your dick siblings think our lives are so worthless. Guess what? They’re right.”

Cas looks at him, obviously disturbed. “You don’t really mean that, Dean.”

“Oh yeah?” Dean growls, “Well, maybe I do.”

Castiel looks at Dean, and his brows furrow slightly.

“You’re very angry,” he observes.

Dean raises an eyebrow and bites out acerbically, “No shit, Sherlock.”

“Almost irrationally so,” Castiel continues, giving no sign of having heard Dean. “You know what I think, Dean?” he says, tone as matter-of-fact as if he’s explaining the law of gravity, “I think _you_ want to be human again. All this anger and your initial outburst was because something about the story struck a little closer to home than you’d like to admit to yourself. All those things you said about me- that’s what _you_ want...”

Dean wants to scream at Castiel, he wants to tell Castiel that he’s wrong, but it feels like he’s choking, like his throat has suddenly constricted and he cannot manage a word.

Castiel is watching Dean closely. There’s a terrible look of understanding in his eyes, and his voice is startlingly gentle as he says, “Deep down inside, you want a happy ending, Dean. You want a human soul. And all this lashing out at me is just your attempt to deny it.”

Swallowing hard, Dean finally manages to find his voice.

“Screw you,” he snarls, “I couldn’t give a flying fuck about being human. My soul is perfectly fine as it is. Stop trying to psychoanalyze me, you feathered _freak_.”

“There is nothing wrong about wanting to be human again, Dean,” Castiel says evenly.

“I don’t- I don’t want-” Dean breaks off, and he glares at Castiel, snarling, “Stop looking at me like that. I don’t need your-” he spits in disgust, “your _pity._ ”

Voice gentle, like he’s approaching a wounded, frightened animal caught in a trap, Castiel says, “Dean, you don’t need to hide what you feel from me.”

Dean remains silent and looks away. If only Cas knew. If he had any idea about some of the _feelings_ Dean is hiding from him, he sure as hell wouldn’t be saying that.

Finally, Cas breaks the silence. “I remember what you said to Sam that day when we were having the intervention.”

Dean is briefly confused by Castiel’s abrupt change in topic, but then he sneers. “Ah yes, the ‘ _intervention_ ’. How could I ever forget about that? I was so touched by your _concern_.”

Ignoring Dean, Cas continues, “You told Sam that it would have been better if you’d never come to life, that you wished you had just died.”

Dean’s mouth drops open, and he glares at Castiel hotly. “I never said that,” he says angrily. “Don’t twist my words.”

“Maybe those weren’t your exact words,” Cas admits, but then he goes on to say, “but the meaning was there.” There is a knowing look in his eyes as he says, “I know what you meant, Dean, when you said those things. This kind of self-loathing isn’t healthy.”

His eyes are gentle, free of recrimination or reproach, but Dean swallows hard and drops his gaze, suddenly unable to bring himself to look anywhere near Castiel. All of the anger has drained out of him, and he is just left feeling empty and wretched.

“Yeah, well,” he says in a sullen mutter, “Try turning into the very thing you’ve spent your whole life hating and hunting down, and let’s see how well you deal with it.”

“Dean…” Cas says sadly, and Dean cannot bear it.

“I get it, okay?” he says, “I get why you didn’t go through with the cure. The damn Mark would just have killed me again and we’d be back at square one. And we couldn’t risk Sammy completing the Trials. This was the only solution.”

 _But that doesn’t mean I have to like it,_ Dean thinks but does not say.

“I’m sorry, Dean,” Castiel says, and something in his voice, maybe the sincerity in it, gives Dean the courage to drag his gaze back up to meet Castiel’s eyes. Castiel is looking at him gently, and strangely, for once the sympathy on his face does not rankle.

“Yeah, well,” Dean says gruffly, “Not your fault. That’s just the way things are.”

Looking into Castiel’s warm blue eyes, Dean suddenly feels overwhelmingly guilty. There had been no call for him to be so needlessly cruel to Cas just now. He really doesn’t deserve Cas as a friend- or anything more. God knows why the angel still bothers to stick around, the way Dean treats him sometimes.

“Cas,” he says hesitantly, “About the things I said before- I didn’t really mean any of it. I’m sorry—”

Cas smiles at him, blue eyes unbearably kind. “It’s okay, Dean,” he says reassuringly, “I know,” and in his smile, Dean can see that all has already been forgiven.

Dean is once again hit with a pang of wretched guilt. How can Cas be so good to him? Letting Dean rage at him like that and then just forgive him without even a complaint? Dean sometimes thinks it’d be better for Castiel if he just left. After all, all Dean does is hurt the people he loves. That’s one thing that hasn’t changed about him.

This line of thought makes him feel utterly terrible, so he decides to play it off with humor like he usually does.

“Don’t go making any deals with nasty purple octopus ladies, Cas,” he tells the angel with mock sternness. Waggling his eyebrows playfully, he says, “I’ve got better rates.”

For a moment, Castiel looks as though he wants to be his usual pedantic self and point out the fact that Dean isn’t a crossroads demon. But before Dean can get really worried that his lame joke is going to fall flat on its face, Castiel’s face splits into a broad grin and he chuckles. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he promises solemnly, and in that moment, Dean’s lips lift into a hesitant but genuine smile.


	11. My Brother's Keeper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sam has a nightmare and Cas has a suggestion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sam-centric chapter! And boy is this NOT a happy chapter. 
> 
> **WARNING** for dark themes, semi-graphic violence and Sam’s subconscious torturing him.

 

_And the Lord said unto Cain, Where is Abel your brother? And he said, I know not: Am I my brother's keeper?_

(Genesis 4:9)

 

Sam is dreaming. He knows he is, in that strange way people sometimes do when they’re dreaming, but he can’t seem to break out of it.

He is a dark warehouse. All around him are bodies. There are so many of them, the floor is slick with their blood, and as Sam makes his way further into the warehouse, he has to step carefully to keep from slipping. The sick iron tang of blood and death is almost overwhelming. In the dead silence, there is nothing but the quiet splashing of his footsteps.

Sam bends down to take a closer look at the corpses in front of him. Each corpse is covered with long, slashing strikes, like knife-wounds. The blows have been positioned carefully, with surgical precision. They’re not death blows, but mortal wounds that were obviously meant to inflict the maximum amount of pain, to make the victims bleed out as slowly as possible. It is the work of a master torturer. Dean’s work.

Sam feels sick. He’s no stranger to death- he sees more dead bodies in a week than most people would in a lifetime- but looking at the bodies, knowing that these corpses were created by his brother, makes the bile rise up in his throat. He closes his eyes, breathing in slowly through his mouth, and tries to calm his racing heart. But his eyes shoot open when he hears quiet chuckling from behind him and he spins around, automatically falling into a fighting stance.

“Hello Sam,” Dean says, and the smile on his face is truly awful to behold. Blood covers his features like some terrible mask, and the First Blade is clutched in his hand, still dripping red. “I knew you’d catch up with me one day.”

Still smiling, he strolls slowly towards Sam, and Sam only hesitates for a second before he fires a bullet at the center of Dean’s chest. The devil’s trapped bullet hits its mark and Dean’s body rocks backwards with the force of the shot. But Dean doesn’t flinch back or hiss in pain. Smiling lazily, he continues walking forward towards Sam, each step slow and measured, like he has all the time in the world.

Mouth dry, Sam pulls the trigger again. This time he aims for the heart. The bullet hits home, but Dean just laughs. There is an ugly sneer on his face, and he looks at Sam as if Sam is less than even the most pathetic worm, like he knows he could crush Sam under his boot heel anytime he wanted, but he’s just holding off because Sam amuses him so much.

“You fool,” he hisses, “Did you really think that would work on me? I’m far stronger than Abaddon ever was.” His eyes flicker black, and he bares his teeth in a savage snarl as he says with dark relish, “I killed that bitch, remember? And I’m going to kill you just like I killed her. But I’m going to make it _slow_. For old time’s sake, Sammy.” He smiles gently in a terrible mockery of his usual smile, with an undercurrent of sadistic glee, and Sam’s mind goes blank with fear.

“It didn’t happen this way,” he says desperately as he takes an involuntary step backwards, “It worked. We got you. We _cured_ you.”

Dean’s smile turns sharp. “Don’t you see, Sammy?” he says mockingly, “I can’t be cured. Not really. Not forever. Did you think I was just gonna… stop?” He laughs, low and cruel, and shakes his head in amusement. “You stupid son of a bitch. And here I thought you were supposed to be the smart brother.”

Shaking his head in mute denial, Sam continues to back away slowly. Dean seems amused by his reaction. His eyes are alight with cruel glee, and there is something like pride in his voice as he says, “I’m a killer now. I can’t stop it. I don’t _want_ to stop it.” Dean chuckles darkly. “You should know, shouldn’t you? You and your little demon’s blood addiction. But you were always weaker than me, Sam.” Dean sneers at Sam disdainfully as he walks forward towards Sam. “You didn’t have the guts to just give in…Just let it take over…”

Sam’s breathing comes in harsh pants as he backs away, mind awash with fear.

Where is Cas? He should be here. He had been with Sam when they caught and subdued Dean. Where the hell is he now? This dream is going all wrong. Sam feels trapped, helpless. He backs away with increasingly frantic steps as Dean stalks towards him with predatory grace, nonchalantly twirling the blood-red bone dagger around in his hand. His eyes are dark with deadly intent.

“Cas! Where are you? Cas!” Sam cries out, desperation driving a note of hysteria into his voice, but there is still no sign of the angel. He nearly trips over a corpse as he backs away from Dean, but manages to hastily recover his balance before he can fall to the ground. His hands are shaking violently, and it is only years of long practice that prevent him from dropping his gun.

Dean is smiling with dark, malicious glee, like he’s enjoying the sight of Sam scrambling away from him, eyes wide with panic.

“This is all your fault, Sam,” he says, and each word feels like a physical blow. “You drove me to this. You let me _die._ These people- they’re all dead because of you. Their blood is on _your_ hands.”

Sam shakes his head in denial, desperately trying to will himself into waking up.

 _This is just a dream_ , he repeats to himself like a mantra. _This is all just a dream._ He squeezes his eyes shut but even in the blackness behind his eyelids, he can still see Dean’s cruel smile. _Wake up Sam,_ he orders himself, _Wake up, damn it!_ But when Sam opens his eyes again, he’s still in that dark warehouse, and Dean is still smiling at him with that terrible, blood-stained grin, walking closer and closer and there is nothing Sam can do to stop it.

“No…” With shaking hands, Sam brings up his gun to shoot Dean again, but Dean just chuckles and shrugs the devil’s trapped bullet off. Slowly but inexorably, he continues to advance towards Sam. There is an expression of cruel amusement on his features.

“No… stop it,” Sam cries, and his voice breaks. “Stop- stop it, damn you.” He backs away, and his gun jerks in his fingers as he shoots again and again and again. He shoots until there’s nothing but empty clicking as he presses frantically at the trigger. His back hits the wall, but Dean keeps on coming, and there is something like victory in his lazy grin. “Stop it, please…” Sam tries to say, but his voice is weak with fear and it comes out as barely more than a whisper.

Ever so casually, Dean wrenches the gun out of Sam’s hands and tosses it away. Sam hears it hit the ground with a clatter. Then, Dean is grabbing Sam by the throat, his grip painfully tight, and Sam grunts in agony. _What the heck?_ Sam thinks desperately, _Isn’t this a dream? Shouldn’t I not be able to feel any pain?_

But the pain doesn’t go away. If anything, it intensifies.

Smiling, Dean puts the First Blade against Sam’s cheek. The bone is startlingly cold against his skin, and Sam shudders violently, trying to flinch away from the blade, but Dean’s grip is merciless.

“I should thank you, really,” he tells Sam conversationally, “It’s only because of what you said to me that I learned how to let go of all those,” he spits out the words like they’re vulgarities, “ _petty human emotions_.” He sneers. “What good did they do me anyway?”

Sam swallows hard. “Dean, this isn’t you-”

Dean’s grip tightens on Sam’s throat, fingers digging into Sam’s flesh painfully. “Oh yeah?” He smiles at Sam, all teeth. “This _is_ me. This is exactly who I am. This is who I should have been all along.”

“Saving people, hunting things, the family business?” Dean scoffs. “Hah! Screw that shit!” He snorts angrily and spits out, voice filled with venom, “I’m done with all that crap, and I’m done with you!”

Sam tries to turn his face away, unable to bear the sight of Dean’s hate-filled eyes any longer, but Dean just grabs his chin and forces Sam to turn back to face him. Sam struggles against his grip, but Dean’s fingers are like steel, and Sam is forced to look into Dean’s eyes, wild with anger, as he snarls at Sam, “Didn’t anyone tell you it’s rude to look away when someone’s talking to you? What? Can’t stand the sight of me anymore, Sam? Does it pain you to look at me?”

Sam squeezes his eyes shut, and tries to flinch away from Dean.

“Look at me!” Dean roars, “Look at me when I’m talking, damn you!” He slams Sam hard against the wall, hard enough that Sam is unable to prevent himself from letting out a small whimper of pain. He slumps against the wall, coughing weakly. Maybe this is just a dream, but the pain feels all too real. Sam wonders if he will ever wake up.

But then Sam feels the cold press of bone against his throat and his eyes fly open. Dean presses down and the edge of the First Blade bites into Sam’s flesh, breaking skin. Warm blood trickles down Sam’s collarbone and seeps into his clothing. Too fast and too loud, the rush of Sam’s blood roars in his ears.

“You gonna listen to me now, Sammy?” Dean asks.

Sam nods mutely. Grimacing, he forces himself to straighten up and look Dean in the eye.

Dean smiles in approval. “Now, that’s better, isn’t it?”

The gentleness of his tone belies the sheer malice in his eyes as he says musingly, “You know, you were right all along, Sam, when you told me that everything that has ever gone wrong between us is because we’re family. You were right when you said we shouldn’t be brothers.” He chuckles. “I really am better off without you, without all this…” Dean draws a shallow cut across Sam’s face with the First Blade and Sam winces as a line of searing fire blooms across his cheek, “human…” Dean cuts down again, harder, and Sam lets out an involuntary cry of pain as blood drips down his cheek, “baggage…”

“It’s because of you that I’m free now.” Dean laughs and once again, Sam feels the edge of the blade return to rest against his throat. Dean smiles, sickly sweet. “Let me thank you properly, Sammy.”

Sam is nearly sobbing. “Don’t do this, Dean… please….don’t do this…”

Dean smiles slyly. “Beg all you want, Sammy,” he says lightly, “It’s music to my ears.”

He leans in close, staring straight into Sam’s eyes. His voice is soft like he’s making a confession. “I’ll let you in on a little secret, but I think you already know, deep inside…” Dean’s voice deepens, and his tone turns darker, crueler, “I hate you, Sam. I’ve always hated you, even when I was still human. You were always such a burden. I’ve spent my whole life protecting you and for what? Everything that has ever gone wrong is because of you. Mom dying. Jess dying. Me going to Hell. The Apocalypse. Failing the Trials. You fuck up everything you touch, Sam. You can’t get anything right. So maybe I shouldn’t be so surprised you let me down again. You failed me, just like you’ve failed everyone in your life.”

Sam’s vision is blurry, and his throat feels clogged. He stares at Dean blankly as the tears make their way down his face, causing the cuts on his cheek to sting.

Dean smiles back at him tenderly, and it looks just like Dean’s usual loving smile. His voice is surprisingly gentle as he says, “I’ll be doing the world a favor by killing you, Sam. What good are you alive? You’re better off dead.”

Sobbing in earnest, Sam gasps, “I’m sorry, Dean. I’m so sorry…” He slumps back, going limp in Dean’s grip. “It’s all my fault. Please, Dean… please forgive me…”

He lets his head loll back and he bares his throat, waiting for the blow to come.

Dean’s eyes flash pure black and his smile turns savagely triumphant as he raises his arm in preparation to strike. He is about to bring the First Blade down when suddenly, his figure lights up in a fiery explosion of red light, and with a look of surprise on his face, he drops to the ground, dead. Standing behind Dean’s corpse is Castiel, angel blade in his hand. There is an expression of baffled worry on his face as he looks at Sam.

“Sam, are you feeling alright?” he asks. He flicks his hand and the blade disappears.

Castiel’s gaze drifts downwards and he stares at Dean’s body, obviously disturbed. “I didn’t know you were having nightmares about your brother,” he comments, frowning faintly.

Sam stares at Castiel in astonishment. He still feels kind of dazed. This isn’t the first time he’s had this dream, but this is the first time it has ended in a way that did not involve Sam’s gory demise. And the first time that Castiel ever showed up.

“Cas?” he says slowly, “You’re… you.” He shakes his head to try and clear it. “I mean- real you. Not dream you.”

He straightens up from the wall, and tries to surreptitiously wipe his tears away, but Castiel probably sees everything. To Castiel’s credit, he has the grace not to comment on it. The angel just waits patiently as Sam takes deep, calming breaths and tries to arrange his disheveled clothing; there is nothing on his face except an expression of mild interest as he surveys their surroundings, though his lips briefly twist into a faint frown as his gaze flickers over the dead bodies on the warehouse floor.

“Cas, what are you doing here?” Sam asks after he finally regains enough composure to feel passably confident about sounding something like his normal self.

“I am dream-walking, Sam,” Cas replies matter-of-factly. “I thought that was obvious.”

“Yeah, I kinda got that,” Sam says, “What I meant was- why are you in my dream?”

Castiel looks shifty. “I wanted to have a private conversation with you. Away from Dean.”

Sam looks at him worriedly. “You can do that? Won’t Dean notice you’re gone?”

Castiel shakes his head. “For all intents and purposes, Dean and I are now in the library re-watching the thirteenth episode of season five of Dr. Sexy M.D. As far as Dean knows, I am thoroughly engrossed in the romantic exploits of Dr. Sexy, who is now sleeping with Dr. Chandler, his on and off old-flame, and rival neurosurgeon. Since I usually watch the show in unblinking silence anyway, Dean is unlikely to realize that my attention has… strayed.”

Sam’s eyebrows go up. “I thought you actually like that show? Isn’t it- what? Surprisingly compelling?”

Cas nods. “It is.” But then he sighs and adds quietly, “But not so much after you watch it fifteen times.”

Sam frowns. “But you always seem so…” Sam trails off and looks at him in surprise. “You mean- you’re just watching it to humor Dean?”

“He seems to enjoy watching the show with me very much,” Castiel states offhandedly.

“Wow,” says Sam. He has to admire Castiel’s loyalty. Sam is Dean’s brother, and he won’t even suffer through one episode with Dean, and yet here Cas is, forcing himself to sit through more than ten repeat viewings and pretending he loves every second of it, just to please Dean. That’s some true friendship right there.

“In any case,” says Castiel, face solemn, “I wanted to speak to you about your brother, Sam. I have certain… concerns about your attitude towards him and his current punishment.”

Sam sighs. He really, _really_ doesn’t want to have this conversation right now, especially after the dream he just had. He doesn’t even want to _think_ about Dean until he’s drunk at least a fifth of whiskey. But he knows he owes Cas an apology for the way he involved the angel in this whole mess, at the very least.

Running a hand through his hair, he says wearily, “If this is about me cuffing you guys together, I’m sorry. I know- it was kind of a dick move, and I should’ve asked you first…” he trails off, before adding guiltily, “And I probably shouldn’t have yelled at you either…”

“It’s okay, Sam,” Cas says, “You’ve been under a great deal of pressure these few months. I know that dealing with Dean has been very trying for you. I won’t blame you for your irrational and pointless outbursts of temper or your occasional moments of blatant hypocrisy.” He gives Sam what is probably supposed to be an understanding smile.

Cas has gotten much better at navigating the labyrinthine mess that is human emotion since Sam first met him, but it seems he sometimes still has trouble toning down on the brutal honesty. Tact, it appears, is still not exactly his strong suit.

Sam smiles back at him weakly and says, “Thanks? I guess…”

Apparently not picking up on Sam’s slightly strained tone, Cas nods at Sam in acknowledgment before continuing, “However, I wanted to speak to you about something else.”

He pauses, as if trying to consider the best way to put things. “Sam, I know you mean well,” he says slowly, “but your recent treatment of Dean has been rather… harsh.” He hesitates slightly before saying, “Perhaps even bordering on unreasonable.” His voice holds a tinge of gentle reproach. “I cannot help but feel that you are still blaming Dean for the things that he did when he was…” his eyes drift briefly to the bodies lying on the warehouse floor, before returning to meet Sam’s gaze “… not himself.” Castiel’s tone softens. “Perhaps it might help you if you were to discuss your feelings with me,” he suggests. “I have noticed that that is often what best works for you when you are troubled.” He smiles encouragingly at Sam.

Sam stares at Cas in mute shock. Are they seriously having this conversation right now? Sam’s skin and clothes are stained with his blood, Dean’s dead body is still lying on the floor between them and they are surrounded by a mountain of mutilated corpses. Sam is definitely not feeling the mood.

Sam gives Castiel a thoroughly unimpressed look. “Not himself?” he says brusquely, “Don’t sugarcoat things, Cas. Dean went full on axe murderer crazy. He killed dozens of people. Innocent humans. You know. The people he’s always telling me we’re supposed to be _saving_.”

Cas looks mildly at Sam, and there is the barest hint of disappointment in his gaze, which just annoys Sam more.

“The things he’s done?” Sam says in disgust, waving a hand at the dead bodies covering the warehouse floor. He grits his teeth. “If he were anyone else, he’d be dead right now. Or buried under three feet of concrete.”

“But he’s not anyone else,” Cas states placidly. “He’s your brother.”

Sam does not reply, but he doesn’t need to. His silence is an answer in itself.

There is something quietly entreating in Castiel’s voice, something almost like a plea, as he says, “Sam, I know you’re hurting, but you have to try to understand- Dean may have changed, yes, but he's still the brother you love. Dean’s still in there, Sam. He's always been. And he needs you… not a warden- or a- or a jailor. He needs you to be his brother _..._ not just his keeper.”

Sam looks away from Castiel and does not reply. He stares down at Dean’s corpse, the waxen face still frozen in a look of surprise, the blood-stained lips, the fingers wrapped claw-like over the First Blade, stiff in death. His eyes are not black, but an all too familiar dull dead green.

Sam closes his eyes and his fingers clench into fists. Sometime after Cas arrived, Sam’s cuts stopped stinging, probably because his mind had finally fully recognized that he was in a dream, and he shouldn’t be feeling any pain. But there is a different pain, somewhere deep down inside Sam, and it is somehow ten times worse. In that deep dark place, the words of the nightmarish reflection of Dean still resonate with painful truth- a truth that Sam cannot deny, much as he tries to.

When he finally speaks, there is a curious feeling of detachment and his voice sounds distant, like Sam is listening to some other person talking, like it’s some other person’s lips shaping the words as they say, quiet and emotionless, “You’re wrong. My brother died that night when Metatron put a blade through him. Maybe something came back afterwards, but that’s not Dean. Not really. Maybe it looks like Dean and it behaves like Dean, but it isn’t my brother anymore. Dean’s dead, and all that’s left now is just a shell of what he once was. A _monster_ ,” Sam spits out the last word, and Castiel looks at him, appalled, but it is the soft sadness in his eyes that hits Sam the hardest.

“You don’t really believe that,” Castiel says slowly.

Sam remains silent for a long while.

“You’re right, I don’t,” he finally admits quietly. “But sometimes, I wish it was true. It’d make things so much easier.”

Cas looks straight into Sam’s eyes as he asks, “Sam, am I a monster?”

Sam stares at Cas, startled. “What?”

Castiel says, voice matter-of-fact, “I did many terrible things when I embarked on my plan to absorb the souls from Purgatory. I tore down your mental wall in an act of deliberate cruelty. I killed thousands of my own siblings when I declared myself the new God. I would have killed all of you- Dean, Bobby, yourself- without a trace of hesitation, had you not begun to kneel to me.” He looks into Sam’s eyes, and his gaze is strangely piercing. “Does that make me a monster?”

Sam looks away. “That’s different, Cas.”

“How is it any different?” Cas says, “If you can forgive me for everything I did when I was crazed with power, how can you continue to hold Dean at fault for his actions when he first rose as a demon?”

Sam shakes his head. “You were only trying to do the right thing,” he insists, “It was the Leviathans’ influence that made you do all those terrible things.” But his protests sound weak even to his own ears. Dean had only been trying to do the right thing when he got the Mark as well. And look where that got him.

How was it that Crowley had put it that fateful day when Sam summoned him and proceeded to scream at him in mindless rage until he finally explained what happened to Dean? Ah yes… _“Road. Hell. Good intentions. Yada, yada, yada.” One expressively arched eyebrow. “You get the gist, Moose.”_ That fucking smug limey _bastard_.

Cas seems to pick on Sam’s hesitance. “None of us here hasn’t screwed up before, Sam,” he says.

Sam does not reply to that, because what can he say, it _is_ true.

“But that doesn’t mean we have to let it define us.”

Castiel looks at Sam, and there is unexpected understanding in his warm blue eyes as he says gently, “That applies to you, as well, Sam.”

Sam stares at him, confused as to Castiel’s meaning. Weren’t they talking about Dean?

“Dean’s situation is not your fault, Sam,” Castiel says, “You shouldn’t blame yourself for it, and neither should you blame him,” and it is this soft-spoken sentence, more than anything, that finally gets through to Sam.

Cas is right, Sam realizes. He has always been right- about Dean, about Sam, about everything. Isn’t that funny? It took an angel with all of six years of experience with human emotions to call Sam out on his shit. Looks like emotional dysfunction really does run in the family.

A heaviness that feels terribly like shame settles in his stomach. Shaken, Sam stares blankly at Castiel and something of his contrition must show on his features because Castiel’s gaze softens.

“I’m not asking you to take off the cuffs immediately, or to give Dean complete freedom,” Castiel says in a faultlessly reasonable tone of voice. “But I do have a suggestion… I think you should do something together with him that the two of you used to do together as brothers. Something to remind him of how life was before he became a demon.”

Sam raises an eyebrow. Is Castiel suggesting some brotherly bonding time? “I don’t know if you noticed, Cas, but Dean isn’t exactly very happy with me nowadays,” Sam says dryly, “I don’t think we’re going to be sharing a beer together on the hood of the Impala anytime soon.”

Castiel’s only response to Sam’s sarcastic reply is the slightest rise of an eyebrow. “I was thinking more along the lines of going on a hunt together,” he says placidly.

Sam gives Cas an incredulous look.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” he asks, “Cos Dean’s kind of still recovering from the whole ‘urge to murder everything in sight’ thing. Asking him to come on a hunt? That’s like dangling a beer in front of a recovering alcoholic.”

If by beer, you meant screaming hapless monsters and by alcoholic, you meant bloodlust-crazed psychotic demon. Were that to actually happen, Sam would feel kind of sorry for the monsters.

Castiel gives Sam a look that suggests he thinks Sam is being overly paranoid.

“Have a little faith in your brother, Sam,” Cas says primly. “Besides, Dean is going to have to start hunting again someday. We might as well start him off with something small now. Ease him back into it, while he’s still in the cuffs. What is it that humans call it?” He furrows his brows and thinks for a moment, before saying, fingers forming air-quotes, “‘Training wheels’?”

When Sam still does not look convinced, Cas sighs. “Just consider it, alright?” he says, and he snaps his fingers. Abruptly, Sam finds himself standing in a beautiful park. All around him, the sun is shining and the birds are singing. There is no sign of Castiel.

A wet nose pokes at his hand, and Sam starts, but then he looks down to see a familiar golden retriever panting happily at his feet.

“Bones!” Sam exclaims in delight. As he bends down to pat the dog, Bones leaps up at him to lick his face, and Sam is bowled over into the grass, where he lies, laughing, trying to fend off the overfriendly bundle of fur trying to maul his face with its tongue. “Bones, stop it!” he cries, but Bones continues licking at Sam’s face until Sam is covered all over in dog slobber and Sam’s sides hurt from laughing.

Eventually, Bones curls up against his side, and Sam idly strokes his fingers through the dog’s soft fur, taking comfort from the warm presence by his side. Closing his eyes, he allows himself to sink into the grass, lying back and looking up at the sky, a perfect cloudless shade of blue.

As he lies there quietly in a memory of a long-gone summer afternoon, blades of grass tickling his cheek and the warm sun on his skin, Sam realizes- this is exactly what he needed after that dreadful nightmare about Dean.

Smiling, Sam gives a silent prayer of thanks to Castiel. For such a ‘weird, dorky little guy’, Cas can be real wise. It seems that he knows Sam and Dean better than they know themselves, sometimes. Perhaps, Sam thinks, the angel actually has a point.


	12. The Family Business

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys go on a simple ghost hunt. It turns out to be not so simple after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Utmost apologies for my lengthy absence. I won't bore y'all with excuses, but suffice to say writer's block and real life combined their forces and thoroughly kicked my ass. It was not pretty. Anyways, I hope this chapter makes for a semi-adequate peace offering :)

“So let me get this straight,” Dean says skeptically, “You want _me_ to go on a hunt with _you_?”

He looks up at Sam, an expression halfway between incredulity and disgruntlement on his face. The level of enthusiasm in his tone is about as much as if Sam had asked whether Dean wanted to accompany him to a Taylor Swift concert.

This is… not exactly the response Sam had expected. Not that Sam thought Dean would jump in joy like a kid being told they were going to Disneyland, but he’d expected somewhat more eagerness than this. After all, Dean was always the one among the two of them who seemed to enjoy hunting more. Plus, Sam thought after all his complaints about being trapped in the Bunker like a prisoner, Dean would be jumping at any chance to get out. But no, that’s apparently not the case.

Behind Dean, Cas looks at Sam meaningfully and does a weird eyebrow dance that is possibly supposed to communicate a message along the lines of ‘try harder, Sam’.

“Yes…” Sam says slowly. He drags his gaze away from Castiel before he can give the game away by blatantly staring at Castiel’s strangely expressive eyebrows. Instead, he fixes his gaze resolutely on Dean’s face, currently scrunched up into a thoroughly unimpressed frown. “Yes, I thought we could go together. You know, just like old times?” He plasters a smile onto his face that he hopes doesn’t look too fake.

Dean gives him a skeptical look and says acerbically, “What happened to ‘ _don’t let Dean near the kitchen knives, he might try to shank someone_ ’?” With a derisive snort, he says, “All of a sudden you trust me to go on a hunt? Just like that? What’s prompted this sudden change of heart?” Folding his arms, he gives Sam a suspicious glare.

Sam ignores Dean’s glare. “I’ve decided to give you the benefit of the doubt, Dean. Don’t abuse it.” He looks at Dean firmly. “So, you want in on this hunt or not?”

Dean lets out an exaggerated yawn and declares, “ _Booooring_. It takes me more effort to move my little toe than to squash a _ghost_.” He waves a hand dismissively at Sam. “Call me when you have something more worth my time.”

Behind Dean’s back, Castiel gives Sam an extremely pointed look. His eyebrows continue their previous attempt at interpretive dance. It’s a good thing Dean can’t see what Cas is doing; he might think the angel is having some kind of seizure.

To save Jimmy Novak’s face from further torture, Sam says to Dean, “Don’t you want to get out of the Bunker? Given how much you’ve been whining about being cooped up in here, I thought you’d be a bit more grateful for a chance to get out there and stretch your legs.”

Dean arches an eyebrow disdainfully at Sam. “I just don’t see why you need me or Cas around for a simple salt and burn. An angel and a Knight of Hell? Seriously, that’s just overkill, dude. Back in the old days, we could handle this kind of stuff in our sleep.” He smirks. “You losing your edge, Sam? Your cozy bed and all those nice warm home-cooked meals catching up with you?”

He reaches out to poke at Sam’s stomach with his un-cuffed hand, and Sam swats his hand away with a glare. “Seems to me you might be getting a little soft around the middle,” Dean says to him with a wink. “Does he look rounder to you, Cas? Cos he looks rounder to me.”

Annoyed, Sam asks, “So are you coming or not?”

Dean sighs exaggeratedly. “Oh very well,” he says, with the air of one who has in his beneficence, most magnanimously deigned to grace the peons with his exalted presence. “I guess it’s not like I’ve got anything much better to do anyway.”

Sam just barely manages to resist the urge to roll his eyes.

 

\---

 

They drive there in the Impala because Dean insists that “If we do this, we do it _properly_.”

Thankfully, the case is only a few hours’ drive away. It looks like a simple haunting. Probably a vengeful spirit or poltergeist. Sam figures they’ll find the bones, have themselves a little salty bonfire and be back in the Bunker in time for Sam to make himself dinner and catch the latest episode of Game of Thrones on Dean’s fancy new TV (which Cas has somehow managed to mojo into receiving HBO, a use of divine miracle-working powers for which Sam is secretly and guiltily grateful). All in a day’s work, really.

Dean starts up the Impala with a wide smile on his face and cranks the music up to its usual blaringly loud level. After they get out onto the open road, Dean even starts singing along in his usual unselfconsciously tone-deaf way. It should be exceedingly annoying, but listening to Dean singing loudly along to Highway to Hell, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel and smirking jauntily at Castiel’s unamused expression, actually puts a smile onto Sam’s face. Everything feels almost… normal.

Sam is abruptly struck by the stark realization of just how much he has missed all of this. It fills him with a strange, bittersweet sort of nostalgia.

However, Dean’s good mood doesn’t last long. When they roll into town, pulling over by the police station so that Sam can go interview the local uniforms, Dean promptly throws a hissy fit upon being told to stay in the car with Cas.

“This is bullshit,” Dean says angrily, “Stay in the car? You know who stays in the car?” He gives Sam an extremely displeased glare. “Dogs and babies!”

In return, Sam simply treats Dean to the bitchface™ and crosses his arms slowly.

“Then please tell me, Dean- how exactly am I supposed to introduce you two?” he asks sourly. He nods meaningfully at Dean and Castiel’s handcuffed hands and then turns to talk to an imaginary policeman. “Why, good day to you as well, Officer, these are my colleagues, Agents Steele and Grey.” He mimes surprise. “Oh the cuffs? Yeahhh… we’re just, uh… field-testing the equipment?”

Sam snorts loudly and drawls, “ _Sure_ , that’d fly.”

“Agents Steele and Grey?” Dean says, eyebrows raised. “You know, when I downloaded that trashy erotic novel onto your laptop, I didn’t expect you to actually read it.” He gives Sam a knowing smirk.

“I didn’t read it,” Sam protests indignantly, and that’s not a lie, per se. Sam hadn’t read it. He had just… flipped through the eBook a bit. To see what it was about. Just a brief skim through, really. Not that Dean needs to know anything about that.

Folding his arms across his chest, he says, “Everyone knows the names of the main characters.”

“Uh-huh,” Dean says, and he gives Sam an extremely unconvinced look. Sam frowns at him in annoyance.

Cas clears his throat softly. “Actually…” he admits, a somewhat sheepish slant to his shoulders, “I don’t understand that reference.”

Dean flashes Sam a small smug smile as if to say ‘see?’

“Looks like Metatron forgot to give Cas the Cliffs Notes summary for Fifty Shades of Bad Porn,” he says dryly. “Care to enlighten the angel, Sam?”

Sam gives him a look of disgust. “Just stay in the damn car,” he says warningly, and he leaves.

 

\---

 

“This is bullcrap,” Dean declares loudly. “It’s like we’re being sent to the corner with the safety scissors and glitter glue!” He stares sullenly at the dashboard. “You could just have made us invisible, or something. Sam’s being such an ass. Leaving me behind in the car, like some _baby_?” He gives a loud snort of disgust. “I don’t need to be coddled. This ain’t my first rodeo.”

Cas shifts beside him on the car seat. “I’m sure Sam didn’t mean it that way, Dean. He was simply concerned about the suspicions that our appearance would raise. He probably just thought it was less trouble to do the interviews himself.”

“Humph,” says Dean and he folds his arms angrily. Glaring at the police station doors gets boring quick, so he reaches out to fiddle with his tapes. Suddenly an idea comes to him.

“Hey Cas, you ever heard Bon Jovi before?”

“Bon Jovi,” Cas repeats musingly. “Yes, I believe I know what you’re referring to- a rock band originally formed in 1983 from Sayrenville, New Jersey. Named after their lead singer Jon Bon Jovi. They rose to popularity in 1986 after achieving widespread global recognition with their third album ‘Slippery When Wet’-”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Yes, thank you for that extremely enlightening and exciting Wikipedia summary, Cas. Did Metatron’s pop culture info dump come in boring, encyclopedic format, or does your brain just work that way?”

Cas glares at Dean and his mouth opens in indignant protest, but Dean talks right over him, smoothly popping a tape into the player. “Let me show you the good stuff. Metatron did such a shitty job of introducing you to pop culture. We’ve got to do something ‘bout that.”

The rockin’ tunes of ‘It’s My Life’ blast out from the speakers and Dean grins at Cas. “ _This ain’t a song for the broken-hearted_ ,” he hollers, pretending to strum an imaginary guitar as he nods along to the beat. He waves encouragingly at Cas, who gives him a stony, unimpressed stare.

But by the time Sam gets back to the Impala, Dean and Cas are both singing loudly along to the music, though in Cas’s case, the word ‘singing’ can only be used in its loosest sense. Dean beats on a set of imaginary drums while Cas bobs his head to the beat.

“ _Woooooahhhhh_ ,” Cas shouts, “ _Livin’ on a prayer!_ ” and what he lacks in tunefulness, he makes up in earnest enthusiasm.

Sam pauses in the motion of opening the door. He stares at Cas, who is still happily singing along, blithely unaware of Sam’s presence.

Dean grins at the dumbfounded expression on Sam’s face.

“Hey Sam,” he shouts over the music and Castiel’s disastrously off-tune singing, “Cas here sure can karaoke! Bet you didn’t expect that.”

Cas turns around and notices Sam, and he droops guiltily. “Uh, hey Sam,” he says, and sheepishly switches off the music.

Sam gives them both an unimpressed look as he slides into the backseat and says, “Glad to see you two are having so much fun. Now, you ready to get down to business?”

Sam’s serious face is on. Dean contains his urge to smirk and puts on his best ‘attentive and listening’ expression. “Hit us with it, Sammy,” he says brightly, “Give us all the dirt on this nasty little ghostie.”

Sam shoots him a withering glare. Apparently, he thinks Dean isn’t treating this terribly serious issue with the gravity it deserves. “Okay, so everything the local cops told me fits with what we already know. It’s a ghost. There’ve been cold spots, a few sightings, then last week, a bunch of local teens are hanging around the abandoned construction site when they hear some shouting. They rush to the scene, its freezing cold and there are two dead bodies. One of them has its head sheared right off. The other one- well, let’s just say there wasn’t much of a body left for the police to collect.”

“Real enthusiastic, this ghost,” says Dean. “Sounds like a real go-getter.”

Sam pointedly ignores him. “A few years back, a man named Terrence Ellison went missing at that construction site. The description the teens gave fits him to a tee.”

“So you think he’s the ghost?” Dean says, “And his body’s still lying around the construction site somewhere?”

“Yeah, they never did find his body. From what the cops told me, he’s a real nasty piece of work. A regular Ted Bundy. Serial killer, few dozen counts of breaking and entering, kidnapping and arson, wanted across five states. He liked to decapitate his victims and then burn their bodies. Feds were chasing him for years. Nobody knew where he was until a witness placed him at the construction site one night. She saw him fighting with someone, heard gunshots, then she ran. The police found a few dead bodies and enough blood from Ellison to fill a bathtub. So no way he survived that.”

“That’s if he was human,” Cas points out.

“Pretty sure he was,” says Sam, “That’s his ghost hanging around the construction site. Or someone who looks hell of a lot like him. Right down to the facial scars.”

“Alright, I’ll bite,” says Dean, “So we’ve got one psycho ghost who wants to continue his Hannibal Lecter spree from beyond the veil.” He grins and cracks his knuckles. “Easy peasy. Just let me out of the cuffs and I’ll give this son of a bitch a one-way trip down to Hell. First class seats on the ride to eternal damnation, guaranteed.”

A winsome smile on his face, he presents Sam with his and Cas’s cuffed hands with a jingle. He looks expectantly at Sam.

Sam looks back at him impassively, lips thin.

“Nice try, Dean,” he says. “No.”

“What do you mean ‘no’?”

“You’ve hunted your whole life without demonic powers, Dean. Surely you can handle one little ghost without your new ‘mojo’. Can’t you?”

“What the hell, Sam!” Dean bursts out, “That’s _ridiculous_! It’s like having Magic Johnson on your team and sending him out to play blind-folded!”

Sam snorts. “You sure have a high opinion of yourself nowadays,” he says cattily. Dean glares at him and is about to snap off an absolutely scathing retort but Sam continues, “It’s not like you’re useless without your powers, Dean. Somehow, you managed all these years without them, remember?”

Dean glares. “Yeah, see, I seem to remember a lot of getting my _butt handed to me_.”

Sam ignores him. “You can’t expect to rely on those fancy new powers of yours all the time, Dean. You’re gonna get complacent.”

“Complacent?” Dean says indignantly, “I’m not getting complacent!”

“Once the monsters know what they’re dealing with, they’re gonna come prepared, Dean. What if someone shoots you with a devil’s trapped bullet?”

Glaring hotly, Dean retorts, “Yeah, so? I’ll just kill them all anyway.”

Sam smiles thinly. “Then you’ll be able to handle this ghost without your powers, yes?”

Dean huffs angrily. He really walked right into that one.

“Hunting like this will be good for you, Dean,” Sam says, “Think of it as an exercise in nostalgia.” He gives Dean a bright, shit-eating grin. “The traditional human experience.”

Dean glares daggers at Sam. As far as he’s concerned, Sam can take his ‘nostalgia exercise’ and shove it where the sun don’t shine.

“In any case, the cuffs aren’t coming off till the end of the month. That’s my final word on this, Dean. And it always will be.”

Dean’s glare deepens. Sam can be such an inflexible, stubborn asshole. Would it kill him to relax a little? What a total dick.

“Urgh, whatever. Let’s just go gank this evil son of a bitch.”

Maybe ghost hunting will be good stress relief. Dean aches for some proper stabbing action, but he’ll make do with a rock-salt loaded shotgun. There’s really nothing that can’t be solved with the judicious application of some good old-fashioned violence.

 

\---

 

“Hey guys, get this. An angel, a demon and a human walk into an abandoned construction site…”

The all too familiar urge to duct-tape Dean’s mouth shut rises up in Sam like an oncoming tidal wave. In the dead silence of the construction site, Dean’s incessant chattering could not be any more unbearable and obnoxious.

“Dean, _shut up_ ,” Sam grits out through clenched teeth. Swinging his flashlight around, he raises his gun cautiously as he rounds a corner. Nothing but concrete blocks, half-finished walls and shadows. Sam lowers his gun.

He’s getting jumpy, but then again, they’ve been wandering around this place for ages with no sign of anything. It’s long since gone past late afternoon and headed straight into night. It’s full dark now, and looking around at the half-finished buildings, hulking skeletons of metal and concrete, Sam can’t help but feel a low, basal level of unease.

“Relax,” Dean says airily as he comes up behind Sam. His shotgun is rested casually on his shoulder. He’s smiling in an irreverent, annoyingly cheery manner, like he hasn’t a care in the world. “It’s just one puny little ghost. You’ve got the best fighters Heaven and Hell have to offer on your side. What could possibly go wrong?”

“Ever heard of the phrase ‘tempting fate’, Dean?” Sam hisses, “That’s what you’re doing, right now.”

Dean blows an incredibly obnoxious loud raspberry and declares, “I ain’t afraid of no ghosts.” He yawns exaggeratedly. “I’m bored. Where’s the damn ghost? Can’t even be bothered to show?”

“Here ghostie!” he calls, “Nice ghostie!”

Sam is definitely starting to regret bringing him along. It seems that becoming a demon has really turned Dean into the world’s most insufferable five year old.

“You should take this more seriously, Dean,” Cas says in light admonishment, “We’re on a hunt now. Stop fooling around.”

“I’m serious,” says Dean. “ _Dead_ serious.” He snickers.

Ignoring him, Sam digs out the EMF meter. It immediately starts going crazy. Alarmed, Sam looks around frantically, gun at the ready.

Dean clears his throat delicately and taps Sam on the shoulder. “That’d be me,” he says with an impertinent smirk. “That thing’s useless as long as I’m around.”

Right. Dean’s a demon now. Sam can’t believe he forgot that.

Lowering his gun, Sam puts away the EMF meter. He asks Dean irritably, “You can see ghosts now, right? Can’t you, I don’t know, sense it or something?”

Dean gives him a dirty look. “Leaving aside the fact you’ve cut me off from my powers,” he says sourly, tone petulant, “I’m not some kind of supernatural bloodhound. I don’t sniff out ghosts. Why don’t you ask Cas instead?”

“There are currently no supernatural entities in our vicinity other than Dean and myself,” Castiel volunteers helpfully.

“Thanks, Cas,” Sam says. He makes a snap decision.

“Okay, you and Dean take the rest of the first floor and the basement. I’ll go check out the upper levels.”

Dean looks indifferent, and he nods with an air of bored apathy, but Castiel is not quite so sanguine about Sam’s direction. “You sure it’s a good idea to split up like that?” he asks.

“We’ll cover more ground if we split up. This place is huge.”

Cas still looks reluctant, which is possibly a little insulting- even though Sam’s now the only squishy human left among the three of them, he’s still perfectly capable of taking care of himself- but Sam nevertheless appreciates the concern. “I’ll be fine by myself, Cas. Anything happens, I’ll call for you and Dean, alright?”

Mollified, Cas nods. He tugs at the handcuffs, and Dean huffs in annoyance as the angel walks them forward towards the other end of the construction site. “Stop dragging me around,” he growls. His loud complaints can still be heard as the two of them walk away. It is only after Sam goes up the stairs to the second floor of the half-constructed building that everything subsides into blessed, Dean-free silence. It’s a wonder the ghost hasn’t come knocking yet, with the amount of noise Dean’s making.

Sam takes out the EMF meter and holds his flashlight steady as he walks down the narrow corridor. The light illuminates a row of windows and plastic tarps flapping in the wind. There are loose bricks scattered all around the floor and glass crunches underfoot as Sam makes his way slowly down the corridor. He passes a few rooms, all of them empty. The EMF meter doesn’t make a sound. Sam is about to give up and leave for the third floor when he notices one last room, right at the end of the corridor, tucked away at the corner.

He pokes his head inside. The room is filled with various towering piles of construction materials and left-behind machinery. Twisted messes of pipes stick out from the walls, and the floor has collapsed in some places, opening out into the lower floors. It looks dangerously unstable.

In his hand, the EMF meter slowly begins to warble. Tightening his grip on his gun, Sam steps further into the room. His breath fogs around him.

“Show yourself!” he shouts.

He catches sight of a flicker out of the corner of his eye and he spins around, raising his shotgun to aim it straight at the ghost that has appeared.

From the descriptions he heard, Sam was expecting some terribly villainous sort of character, but the man who appears in front of him looks… ordinary, if you disregard the multitude of scars decorating his face. He looks like he could be someone’s grouchy uncle, the kind that yells about kids on lawns and sulks in a corner during Christmas and Thanksgiving parties while drinking up all the punch. It’s a bit like looking at a more grizzled and scarred version of Bobby. The ghost’s salt and pepper hair is slicked back, and his eyebrows are raised as he takes in Sam’s appearance. He is obviously as unimpressed with Sam as Sam is with him.

“Salt-loaded shotgun,” he notes casually. His voice is gruff and somewhat on the hoarse side, like he’d smoked one too many cigarettes when he was still alive. “You a hunter, boy?”

Sam is thrown for a moment. “You know about hunters?” he asks, narrowing his eyes.

The ghost rolls his eyes. “Not the brightest bulb in the box, are you?” he says. “Course I know about hunters. I’m a damn hunter myself.”

Sam stares. _What?_

The ghost gives Sam a derisive look. “Didn’t you do your research, boy? What are they teaching you kids nowadays? Getting real sloppy.”

Now that Sam thinks about it, the impressively long list of charges Terrence Ellison had did bear some similarities to Sam and Dean’s own list. But even if he was a hunter in life, that doesn’t mean he can be trusted. Becoming a ghost tends to… change people. Just look what happened to Bobby.

“What happened here?” Sam asks warily. “You killed two people last week.”

The dead hunter’s eyes darken in rage at Sam’s words, his hands clenching into fists. He looks utterly furious. “ _People_?” he spits, “Those weren’t people. They were demons, boy. They came back to gloat, to try to get revenge on me, but I dealt with them.” His lips lift into a smile of grim satisfaction.

“Demons?” Sam’s mouth goes dry. “There were demons here?”

The ghost’s voice trembles with rage as he says, “You bet there were. They were doing something here, some kind of base of operations. Four years back, I found this place and I saw them. But the demons caught me sneaking around. I took three of the bastards down with me. Exorcised them before I bled out. But the rest escaped.”

There is a quiet desperation in his voice as he says, “I’ve been trying to get a message out for years, but I’ve been stuck here. You don’t know how damn frustrating it’s been. How _useless_ I felt.” Then, the ghost smiles up at Sam and the feverish light in his eyes is almost frightening. “But now- now you’re here. You can put the word out, tell the other hunters— the demons, they’re planning something, something big.”

“What-” Sam begins, but the ghost speaks right over him, his voice urgent and pleading, “You need to get to the dockside, there’s a warehouse there. The demons-”

Abruptly, the ghost stops talking. His eyes fix on some point behind Sam’s shoulder, and suddenly it’s like an overwhelming, almost maddening fury has overtaken him, twisting his features into an unrecognizable mask of pure, animalistic hatred.

Startled, Sam spins around to see what has gotten the ghost so riled up.

Oh _shit_. It’s Dean.

 

\---

 

“Hey Sam, you found anything?” Dean says casually as he strolls into the room. “Cas says the ghost is somewhere nearby.”

He takes in the scene in front of him in a glance- Sam gaping at him in horror, one massively angry-looking ghost staring at him like he’s the Devil incarnate- and he freezes.

The next thing he knows, Sam is frantically shoving at him, standing in front of him like he’s trying to hide Dean from sight- which is just plain ridiculous, even given Sam’s gigantor size- and the ghost is going batshit crazy, screaming something about demons and death and destruction. What is abundantly clear is that it very much wants to destroy Dean.

The smile drains from Dean’s face.

“Wait! Don’t hurt him!” Sam is saying, as he tries his best to interpose himself between Dean and the snarling ghost. “Leave him alone!”

The ghost growls, “What are you doing? Why are you protecting that thing? It’s a demon!”

Dean’s mouth drops open in deeply offended outrage and he bursts out indignantly, “It? Who are you calling ‘ _it_ ’? I’ve got a name, dickhead! It’s Dean Winchester.”

Sam glares at Dean. “Shut up, Dean!” he hisses, before turning back to the ghost, a placating smile on his face. “Look- Dean isn’t evil. He’s on our side-”

The ghost’s scarred face twists into an ugly expression of deep hate. “What? You’re BFFs with the demon?” it spits, “You think it’s gonna help you? What kind of hunter are you? Trusting a demon? Demons lie, dumbass. That’s what they do. They’re nothing but evil, lying sons of bitches.”

Dean experiences a brief moment of extreme discomfort mixed with deja vu. That sounds uncomfortably like something he may have said before. Granted, he had probably been talking about Ruby, and he had been absolutely right about her in the end, but damn if it doesn’t feel kind of dirty, having his own words thrown back at him. The irony would be amusing if it was directed at someone other than himself.

Dean glares venomously at the ghost and snaps, “You’re a real bigot, you know that? Stop stereotyping me.”

“Dean,” Sam growls warningly, but Dean isn’t going to take this lying down. He’s had about enough of people treating him like the Devil himself just because his eyes turn black sometimes. He pushes Sam aside roughly and faces the ghost with resolute defiance, glaring straight into its furious eyes.

“I’m not evil, okay?” he says hotly, and maybe it’s all the pent-up frustration, but he can’t help venting a bit. “I’ve saved the world like- five times over. Don’t I get a little credit for that, huh? I stopped the friggin’ Apocalypse! I saved the entire human race from becoming drugged up monster chow! Hell, I _died_ and became a demon trying to stop a megalomaniacal madman with delusions of grandeur from crowning himself the new God. Doesn’t that earn me a little benefit of the doubt?”

The ghost’s only response is to flicker forward, snake-fast, and plunge its hand into Dean’s chest. Dean yelps in pain. His heart may have stopped beating in earnest a long time ago, but it still smarts something terrible when it’s being squeezed like that.

“Only good demon I know is a dead demon,” the ghost growls into Dean’s ear as it squeezes down harder.

Dean yells in rage. He won’t have this. Being discriminated against and verbally abused is bad enough, but having his internal organs groped by slimy spectral fingers is just crossing the line.

He brings his gun up and pulls the trigger. The ghost dissipates in an explosive burst of grey smoke, releasing Dean’s heart from its cold, vice-like grip. Dean sags backwards and would have fallen but for the steadying hand that Castiel considerately places against his back.

Breathing in and out slowly, Dean leans into Castiel’s support and clutches at his chest. Ouch. Seriously, ouch. Dean hasn’t felt pain like that for a while. Those cuffs have really done a whammy on his usually super hardy demonic constitution. Dean’s almost forgotten how bad it feels to have his insides bad touched by a ghost. All cold and disgusting. He wants to shudder. It’s not an experience he’s keen to repeat.

Sam rushes forward. “Dean, are you alright?” he asks worriedly.

Dean is about to fire off a snappy retort about how alright someone can feel after being violated by a cold dead hand when he finds himself being flung backwards through the air. His shotgun goes flying and lands on the ground somewhere with a loud clatter. Dean himself slams into the ground a second later, the force of the impact knocking all the breath from his lungs. He is dimly aware of Castiel landing beside him, dragged along by the cuffs, but concern for Cas is going to have to wait. There are more pressing things at hand, such as the ghost that is currently looming over him, a grim smile on its face, and there is something terribly business-like and determined about its expression as it looks at Dean. Dean recognizes that look- he’s pretty sure he’s worn that expression himself countless times before- it’s the look many monsters see for the last time before Dean brings the knife down. It’s not really that great a feeling being on the receiving end.

The ghost slams its fist down towards Dean, and Dean hastily throws himself and Castiel out of the way. There is a loud crash and the floor trembles. Dean looks around frantically and spots his gun lying on the floor a few feet away. Without thinking, he flings his hand out and wills the gun towards himself, but instead of flying into his hand obediently, Dean’s gun remains on the ground, stubbornly unmoving.

Dean stares at it blankly. This split second of dumb shock is enough to get him flung through the air again. He hits the wall with a loud crash, and falls to the ground. Coughing, he slumps against the wall, too dazed and in too much pain to do anything but lie there and groan weakly. Luckily for him, Castiel is in better shape. The angel rolls them both out of the way of the ghost’s next attack, and the wickedly sharp piece of metal that was hurtling towards Dean’s neck instead strikes deep into the drywall, sending bits of plaster showering down on them.

Dean stares wide-eyed at the metal piece that is stuck deep into the wall, quivering. A second slower, and Dean would have been missing his head. If he wasn’t sure of it before, he’s sure of it now- this ghost means business.

“Dean!” Sam screams from somewhere nearby, and Dean snaps back to full attention. He looks up, just in time to see his brother getting thrown backwards. Sam hits the wall hard, the gun clattering from his hand, and a second later, a large block of concrete slams into his chest, and he slumps backwards limply.

“Sammy! No!” Dean cries in horror. Sam didn’t survive everything they’ve been through this far to get killed by a ghost. If Sam is dead, this son of a bitch is going to pay. He’ll burn in Hell for all eternity. Dean will _personally_ ensure it.

But then Sam coughs, and he struggles weakly against the concrete block pinning him to the wall. Relief floods Dean.

“Leave Dean alone,” Sam chokes out, and Dean wants to yell at him to shut up. Touching though Sam’s concern may be, it’s just going to get his idiot brother killed. Out of the two of them, Dean is definitely the one who’s in a better position to protect himself at the moment.

“Stay out of this,” the ghost growls at Sam, who glares at it with an all too familiar stubborn look of defiance. “I don’t want to hurt you. But I will if you get in my way.” The ghost pushes the concrete block harder against Sam to emphasize its point, making Sam grunt, his face twisting into a pained grimace.

Dean grits his teeth in anger. Nobody threatens Sammy like that. This son of a bitch is going down. _Painfully_.

He lunges forward towards his gun, but a look from the ghost sends it skittering away again, this time into a convenient hole in the ground which just had to be positioned a few feet away. There is a faint clatter as the gun hits bottom. There’s no way Dean’s getting to his weapon anytime soon.

Dean growls in frustration and curses his luck. This is plain unfair. If only he had his ever so handy demonic telekinetic powers, this would be a friggin’ cakewalk, but no, Sam wanted him to have the traditional human experience. More like the traditional human experience of getting his butt kicked. So much for all Sam’s pontificating about all the benefits of hunting without his powers. Just look at how well that’s been working out for them. When this is all over, he is going to relish rubbing it in Sam’s face so much.

But on the more immediate front of living long enough to tell Sam “I told you so”, Dean decides that their best strategy is to bring out the big guns. He may be out of commission due to the cuffs, but that doesn’t matter, ‘cause at the end of the day, they’ve still got Cas. No ghost can stand up to Cas at full power. The angel will wipe this little bitch off the map like he’s swatting a fly.

“Cas,” he cries, “Do something about this! You’ve got powers, _use them_.” He jerks his head towards the ghost and gives Castiel a pointed look. “Time to get your smite on!”

Cas looks at him dubiously, hesitance clear on his features.

“No!” comes the weak gasp of protest from Sam, and Dean spins around to stare at him. “Don’t hurt him… he’s a hunter too. He’s got information… he can help us…”

Dean gives Sam a deeply incredulous look. ““In case you haven’t noticed, that asshole’s trying to kill me, Sam!” he cries in outrage. “Screw the information! Cas, if you won’t do it, get the cuffs off and I’ll-”

Before Dean can complete his sentence, a barrage of metal tools and various other projectiles that are far too sharp for his liking are hurtling towards him. Dean gapes, open-mouthed. There’s no dodging this one. It’s like a moving wall of pointy, metallic death. He mentally prepares himself to become a human- sorry, demon- pincushion. But before the deadly rain of metal can hit home, Cas grabs his hand.

There is a brief dizzying sensation of displacement, and Dean stumbles as he abruptly finds himself ten feet away from where he was a split-second before.

 _Awesome_ , Dean thinks to himself, grinning smugly at the expression of frustrated rage on the ghost’s face. But it’s not so awesome anymore after Castiel teleports them thrice more in rapid succession. By the ninth teleport, Dean has had about enough and it has ceased to be anywhere near awesome at all. He feels distinctly green around the gills.

“Cas, will you stop it?” he cries, “I’m getting whiplash from all this non-stop zapping around! If you don’t give it a rest, I’m going to be sick all over you!”

Cas spares a second to give Dean a quick look of baffled exasperation. “Dean. Demons can’t get sick.”

Dean glares at him weakly and snaps, “This one can!”

Castiel sighs and neatly pulls Dean out of the way of a concrete block the size of a small car. It smashes into the wall behind them with a loud crash and a shower of loose debris. “Better?” he asks dryly.

Dean gives him a withering glare. “Just peachy,” he says sarcastically. “How about you actually start _attacking_ , instead of dragging me around like we’re playing freaking dodge-ball? I know for certain that these cuffs haven’t removed _your_ ability to smite things.”

Cas gives him a disapproving look. “I cannot in good conscience destroy this man’s soul, Dean,” he says, face solemn. His voice is infuriatingly serene. Without missing a beat, he raises one hand and smoothly catches the five foot-long piece of rebar that comes flying their way before it can impale itself in Dean’s chest. He tosses it away casually like he’s throwing away a piece of cardboard. “We just need to calm him down, explain the situation to him-”

Dean yelps as Cas grabs him around the hip and dips him down like they’re doing the tango. A nasty-looking hand-saw hurtles past Dean’s chin, less than an inch away from his skin. Dean’s eyes go wide. ‘Close shave’ is putting it lightly. He feels like he is about to have an aneurysm.

Cas continues on blithely, voice as annoyingly calm as before, “-I’m sure this misunderstanding will be cleared up and we can all work together amicably.”

“Are you _crazy_?” Dean howls. “Which part of ‘trying to kill me’ do you not friggin’ understand?” He jabs an accusing finger at his neck. “This asshat nearly took my head off!”

“Calm down, Dean,” Cas says mildly, “Even with the cuffs on, you’re not that easy to kill. You bear the Mark of Cain. Besides, your body is no longer even technically alive. I assure you, you’ll be fine…" He flashes Dean a small reassuring smile. "... even if you were to be decapitated.” 

Dean stares at him, aghast. He happens to be very attached to his head; he would very much rather it stay attached to all his other parts. “Oh, thanks a lot, Cas,” he snaps, “That’s real comforting to hear! I’ll just go around Sleepy Hollow-ing it up, shall I? Be a real hit at Halloween parties! Just need to be careful not to drop my friggin’ _head_ in the punch bowl!”

He yanks at the cuffs insistently. “Cas! Let me out now! I can’t defend myself properly like this!”

Cas grabs Dean and propels him to one side, neatly sidestepping the twisted hunk of metal that had just come flying at them. “I’ll protect you, Dean,” Cas promises solemnly, “You needn't worry.”

Dean shoots him a death glare.

“Yeah, you’ve done a real bang-up job of that so far,” he snarls angrily. He still hurts from being flung about like a rag doll, not to mention the skeevy massage the damn ghost tried to give his insides earlier. Besides, he’s not some _damsel in distress_. He’s Dean fucking Winchester. He’s a hunter, and a Knight of Hell to boot. He doesn’t need to get his ass rescued like some- some swooning maiden. He’s still got his pride.

He glares indignantly at Castiel. “I don’t need your protection,” he growls. “I can take care of myself!" He gives the cuffs an angry yank. "Let me out so I can show this little bitch who’s boss!”

Castiel gives him a stern look.

“Your attitude isn’t helping any towards communicating our peaceful intentions, Dean,” the angel scolds in a lightly reproving tone, like a schoolteacher reprimanding a recalcitrant pupil. “Please stay silent and allow me to handle this.”

Dean opens his mouth in indignation, because _how condescending is that?_ But Cas throws an arm out sideways, forestalling any protests and pushing Dean back.

Eyes blazing with an unearthly blue light, Cas steps forward with purpose.

“Terrence Ellison!” Cas calls out. His voice vibrates with undeniable power, and in it Dean hears faint echoes of his true voice. “My name is Castiel. I am an Angel of the Lord.”

As Dean watches, Castiel’s figure seems to blur, and even with Dean’s _other_ senses dampened by the cuffs, he sees the shimmering shape of Castiel’s true form beginning to bleed through his vessel. White light limns Jimmy Novak’s body and the great shape of something far more vast and unknowable than anything on this earth moves under his skin, like it’s bursting to get out.

Dean takes an involuntary step backwards. He tries his best to shut off his supernatural senses, to make himself to look at Castiel using only human eyes, but it’s still like squinting at the sun. Dean flinches away, trying to shield his eyes with a hand, but something compels him to look. Cautiously, he opens his eyes again and he sees that Castiel’s wings are out.

They’re stretched out to their full span, nearly the length of the entire room, each feather a shaft of pure white light. Judging by the shadows on the wall and Sam’s awestruck expression, Castiel must have manifested his wings on the physical plane. Eyes blazing with blue fire and wings flared, Cas looks every bit a holy warrior of God.

It’s pretty damn intimidating.

Dean stares mutely, arrested by the sight of Castiel, true form barely contained within his vessel, that strange inner light brimming over Jimmy’s fragile mortal shell, too bright and too beautiful. Every dark, ugly instinct inside him screams at him to run away, to get the fuck away from the angel, for the sake of everything that’s unholy. But for every instinctual shudder of revulsion and fear, there’s an equal and opposing force that feels almost like longing. The warring impulses raging within Dean frighten him. He wants to look away, wants to run away, helplessly unnerved by the roiling emotions within him to which he cannot put a name and that visceral, gut-wrenching fear that seems wired into his very nature, but he stands his ground.

Not that he would get terribly far if he tried to make a run for it anyway, not with the cuffs on.

It’s _Cas_ , he tells himself firmly, like that’s somehow a magical cure-all, even though it really shouldn’t be. It works though. He watches warily as Cas stares down the ghost, looking like the very personification of divine might and holy righteousness.

By all rights, the ghost should be quaking in its little ghostly boots. Dean would be, in its place. But the ghost of Terrence Ellison is coolly unimpressed.

Its figure flickers and in the next moment, the ghost appears right in front of Castiel. Its face is twisted in an ugly grimace of furious hate. “Stand aside, _angel_ ,” it growls, baring its teeth, brazenly unfazed by Castiel in all his heavenly glory. One thing about Dean’s ghostly would-be murderer- the guy sure has balls. Dean’s got to respect that kind of suicidal bravery.

Castiel continues, eyes still tinged with that eerie blue light, “Dean Winchester is a hunter, like you, and he is under my protection.” His voice rings with command. “You will not harm him any further.”

“A hunter?” The ghost laughs. Its lips twist in disgust and it says, voice mocking, “I’m supposed to believe this- this _thing_ is a hunter? A demon with a _heart_?” Dean glares defiantly while Castiel treats the ghost to one of his stoniest looks. And that’s saying something- Cas’s stone face is legendary. He could give marble statues a run for their money without even trying.

Castiel’s voice is firm as he says, “Dean may be a demon, but he is a good man. He’s on our side. We are not your enemies, Terrence.”

The ghost looks right past him at Dean, and it’s like none of Castiel’s words have even gotten through, like the angel doesn’t even exist. The ghost glares at Dean like he’s the most revolting thing it’s ever seen, like Dean’s responsible for everything that has ever gone wrong with the world. Dean glares back defiantly, but the naked hatred on the ghost’s face as it stares straight into Dean’s eyes is unsettling. Dean feels strangely shaken but he hides it with a scornful sneer.

That is probably not the best move.

The ghost’s eyes flash with an all-consuming fury and the ground begins to shake around them. Its figure flickers repeatedly. It’s blinking in and out of reality, rapid staticky flashes, like an image on a television that’s losing its signal. Dean throws a quick look back at Sam, where he’s still pinned against the wall. Sam is bleeding heavily from a cut on his forehead, and he appears to have passed out. This doesn’t look good.

“Demons _are_ my enemy,” the ghost snarls. “You know why I’m like this? Why I let myself become like this? Even though I should know better? Because I’m not going to rest until every single one of those evil black-eyed motherfuckers are dead.” Its eyes narrow and it stares at Dean and Castiel with deadly intensity. Its voice is dark with foreboding. “And anyone else who stands in my way.”

“Calm yourself,” Cas tells the ghost, but he might as well be talking to a wall. The ghost is beyond reasoning. Dean has seen enough vengeful spirits to recognize that. And there’s no way that this is going to end well. Not with Sam out cold and Dean in these damned cuffs, and Cas too chicken to do jackshit. Dean wants to gank this annoying little bitch more than anything, but even he has to recognize when discretion is the better part of valor.

“Uh oh,” Dean says, his tone deliberately light, “Looks like it’s about to blow. Maybe you wanna start thinking about getting us out of here, Cas?”

“Demons,” the ghost growls. It flickers violently and sparks fly from long-dead lamps. “Killed my wife.” It flickers again and the shaking intensifies. “Took my daughter.” There’s a flash and something crashes down hard, sending shards of glass flying. “Just to spite me. They were innocent, they’d done _nothing_!”

“We can help you,” Castiel tells the ghost. “We want to stop the demons as much as you do.”

Dean tugs at Castiel’s arm urgently. “Uh, Cas, there’s a time for talking. And then there’s a time for getting the hell out of here before the damn ghost collapses the entire building around us!”

“Terrence,” Cas begins, but a second later, he stares down in disgruntlement at the steel pipe that had just embedded itself in his chest. Dean hastily pulls him out of the way of the next missile and shoves Cas into cover behind a half-constructed wall.

“You ready to leave now, Cas?” he hisses, “Or you still wanna stick around and talk some more?”

Cas looks down unhappily at the metal pipe sticking out from his chest. Wrinkling his nose, he pulls the pipe out of his torso with a wet squelching noise and tosses it away. “You’re right,” he says dolefully, “We should probably leave.”

“Damn straight I’m right!” Dean says exasperatedly. “Now grab Sam and let’s go!”

Castiel complies and the last glimpse Dean gets of Terrence Ellison’s ghost is of its face, twisted in a snarl of thwarted fury, before Castiel flies them away in a flutter of wings.

 _That went well_ , Dean thinks.

When Sam wakes up after being healed by Cas, and Dean greets him with a sardonic, “Welcome back, Sleeping Beauty,” Sam’s only response is to raise an eyebrow and say archly, “Just a simple salt and burn, eh, Dean? Could do it in your sleep, hmm? One puny little ghost- what could possibly go wrong?”

Dean gives him a death glare.

“Shut your cakehole, Sam.”


	13. Everybody wants to rule the world

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After their disastrous confrontation with the ghost, Team Free Will attempts to regroup. Meanwhile, the demons make their move.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up- serious chapter ahead. Pardon my french but yeah, shit gets real.

“So what now?” Dean asks sourly. He’s sitting on the motel bed, cross-legged. Beside him, perched on the edge of the bed is Castiel, who is flipping idly through the TV channels on their crappy motel TV.

Sam looks up from his laptop, his train of thought stuttering to a sad halt. “I told you already,” he says irritably, annoyed at the interruption. “We need to do more research. There’s more to this case than we first thought.”

Dean looks heavenwards, as if for succor.

“Gee, you think, Sammy?” he says sarcastically. He gives Sam an impatient look. “I know what you said. Demons, warehouse, big evil plans, blah, blah, blah. Let’s go check it out already.”

Sam scowls at him.

“Yeah, great plan,” he says dryly. “There’re about a hundred warehouses by the dockside. Also, we know next to nothing about these demons. Have you thought- maybe going in all guns blazing isn’t such a good idea?”

Dean glares back with disapproval, crossing his arms. “Sitting on our asses doing nothing ain’t so great either. You’ve been staring at your laptop for hours. Maybe you should just admit it. Your research is going nowhere.”

Sam bites back a curse and instead snaps out sullenly, “I don’t see _you_ helping.” After a beat, he asks, “Can’t you, I don’t know, ask around, or something?”

Dean looks at him with an eyebrow raised.

Sam clarifies, “Don’t you have, like, demonic contacts? People you can lean on? Underlings?” He pauses. “Personal minions?”

Dean looks at him like Sam had just said something deeply offensive.

“Do I look like Crowley to you?” he snaps. “You know, just because I’m a Knight of Hell doesn’t mean I’m all of sudden Mr. Popular. They’re not exactly raring to crown me Prom King down there just ‘cause I’m on their team now.” He gives Sam a look of surly derision. “We may have been on the same side, but that didn’t mean we actually _liked_ each other.”

“But surely you must have heard something?” Sam says doggedly, not backing down in the face of Dean’s furious displeasure. “Do you have any idea about what’s going on?”

“Newsflash, Sam! We’re _demons_ , not girl scouts. It’s not like we sit around trading life stories and discussing our world domination plans over milk and cookies.”

Sam opens his mouth, but the look in Dean’s eyes stops him.

“And before you ask, we are _not_ calling Crowley. I’d rather _die_ before I go begging that son of a bitch for help.” Dean huffs before adding in a sullen mutter, “Anyway, it’s not like he’ll come even if I do call.”

Sam gives Dean a questioning look.

“I made it very clear that the next time we’re within a square mile of each other, it’s gonna be because I’m standing over his rapidly cooling corpse.”

“Ah,” says Sam. “Right.” Hell yeah, Sam’s all for that idea, he’ll be right there cheering when it happens. Nevertheless, the aggression in Dean’s tone is somewhat worrying.

After a moment, he says, “But still… could you think of anyone we could summon? Do a bit of questioning?” By which, he of course means interrogate and torture with holy water, salt and threats of exorcism. Y’know. The usual stuff.

Except now, maybe they’d be a bit more, uh, humane in deference to Dean’s… changed condition.

Dean growls. “For the last time, Sam, just because I’m a demon doesn’t mean I’m suddenly privy to all of Hell’s plans!” He gives Sam a pained glare before saying acerbically, “Go back to your stupid, useless research and stop bothering me.”

“Bothering you?” Sam says indignantly. He waves an accusing hand at Dean. “You’re not doing anything except sitting there and sulking like an overgrown man-child! At least _I’m_ trying to do something productive.”

Dean’s lips thin. He looks like he had just bitten down on something particularly sour. “I’m sorry, Sam,” he says bitingly, “did you not hear me when I said ‘let’s go out and do something productive like actually try to find the demons, instead of sitting on our hands like a bunch of panty-waisted nerds’?” From the pointed look of scorn Dean gives Sam, it is obvious who the ‘panty-waisted nerd’ remark is being specifically directed at.

Sam glares at Dean, furious, hands clenching into fists. He would hurl his laptop at Dean, but he doesn’t want to damage the laptop.

Castiel clears his throat. “Maybe this whole process would go a lot faster if the two of you stopped sniping at each other like children,” he remarks offhandedly. Both Sam and Dean turn to glare at him almost simultaneously.

“Just a thought,” says Castiel, voice small, and he falls into chastened silence in the face of Sam and Dean’s mutual displeasure.

“Here’s an idea,” Dean says to Sam acidly, “How ‘bout you take the cuffs off? I’ll pop down to Hell and kick some teeth in ‘til I get answers. Or better, I’ll just find the damn demons and kill them all. Because, _yes,_ _with the cuffs off, I can actually do that_.”

Letting Dean loose to go to town on a bunch of demons? Maybe not the wisest idea. Letting him go down to _Hell_? The very thought fills Sam with dread. God knows what would happen, or if Sam would ever see his brother again.

Sam gives Dean a thoroughly unimpressed look. “Ha ha ha,” he says dryly. “ _No_.”

Dean looks infuriated. “Why are you being such a friggin’ hardass, Sam?” he growls, “I’ve had it up to here with your nonsense! Quit treating me like a prisoner! If there’s any time to be making an exception, it’s now!”

He turns to Castiel. “C’mon, Cas, back me up here.”

Looking slowly between Sam and Dean, and noting the expression on Sam’s face, the angel hesitates. He most wisely chooses to remain silent.

Sam gives Dean a stern look that hopefully conveys his complete and utter disregard for any of Dean’s attempts to weasel his way out of the cuffs. “The cuffs aren’t coming off, not under _any_ circumstances,” he informs Dean, tone brooking no argument. “I don’t care if there’s an army of demons or if it’s the damn Apocalypse restarted, you are _not getting out of those cuffs_.”

To Cas, he says, “Don’t let Dean out, Cas. No matter what he says.”

Dean scowls at him, obviously fuming. “What is this?” he mutters angrily, “Punishment for how I treated you after you ganked Lilith and jumpstarted the Apocalypse? A taste of my own medicine?” He levels an accusing glare at Sam. “Is it my turn to be on-” Dean forms his fingers into air-quotes, “‘ _double-secret probation_ ’?”

“That was, like, five years ago,” Sam says snappishly, and gives Dean a dirty look. “Do you really think I’m so petty that I’m still hung up on that?”

Dean opens his mouth and the look on his face clearly says ‘Yeah, _duh_ ’, but Sam cuts him off with a curt, “Don’t answer that.”

He can’t deal with this right now. Grabbing his jacket, he strides to the door.

“Where are you going?” Dean demands angrily. Sitting on the bed, he glares daggers at Sam.

“Dinner,” Sam says brusquely, “Unlike you, some of us actually still do need to eat.”

He leaves before Dean can reply, and if he shuts the door with more force than is strictly required, Sam is too angry to care.

He’s furious, chest roiling with emotion- worry about Dean, worry about whether he is doing the right thing, and above all, worry about how he’s going to handle this whole demon situation- so understandably, he isn’t exactly paying too much attention to where he’s going. It’s no excuse for what happens next, though. Because Sam’s supposed to be experienced, he’s supposed to be one of the best damn hunters in this country, he’s not supposed to be making stupid mistakes that even the greenest of rookies wouldn’t make.

A rustle, a slight shifting in the air behind him. Sam makes to turn, but pain blossoms across the back of his skull. As Sam slumps, blackness closing in, he thinks, _Damn, jumped in an alley, how could I have been so fucking careless? This is downright embarrassing, Dean’s gonna laugh his ass off—_

Then, there is nothing.

 

\---

 

Dean glares as the motel door slams shut with a loud bang. “Asshole!” he yells at the closed door. Cas throws him a mildly disapproving glance.

“You shouldn’t use that sort of language on your brother,” Castiel says, voice prim.

“What are you, my _mother_?” Dean snaps as he shoots a withering glare at the angel.

Cas looks back evenly. “Dean. You should refrain from antagonizing Sam. It is childish and serves no rational purpose.”

“Yeah, maybe _he_ should stop antagonizing me,” Dean bites out sullenly. “You ever considered that? Why are you always taking his side, anyway?” He scowls at Castiel, unable to help feeling a little betrayed. Cas is _Dean’s_ best friend, damn it. Cas was his friend _first_. He should be favoring Dean.

Great, now he sounds like a jealous girlfriend.

Cas sighs. “I’m not taking any sides, Dean.”

“Could’ve fooled me.” Dean folds his arms with a rattle of metal and subsides into sulky silence.

“Dean,” Cas says in an eminently reasonable tone of voice. “You must realize- you’ve not exactly been treating Sam very well yourself.” When Dean doesn’t reply, Cas says, “You tormented him for weeks, you’ve been opposing him at every turn, and generally acting like a sulky, spoiled child. Maybe Sam has been rather… overzealous in enforcing your discipline. But you’re not exactly blame-free in this matter either.”

Dean looks up, rage burning inside him. He feels like all his anger- at Sam, at Cas, at this whole stupid handcuff debacle- is boiling over, all the pent up feelings of victimization and hurt churning in a broiling mess of despair. This latest incident with Terrence Ellison’s ghost? It’s just icing on top of the ‘Dean being treated like a horrible abomination because he’s a demon now’ cake. What’s new? He already gets that sort of loving treatment from Sam on a daily basis.

The thought fills Dean with a bitter, wretched anger.

“Have you seen the way Sam looks at me?” Dean says, “Like he thinks I’m going to turn evil any moment!” He is vaguely aware that his voice is getting louder and louder, and probably the people in the neighboring rooms will start banging on the walls in complaint soon, but he doesn’t care. “Like I might just decide to go darkside again at the drop of a hat. It’s like he doesn’t even trust me anymore! Like we’re not even brothers!”

Dean swallows hard, gaze dropping down to the bedspread. His eyes find a weirdly shaped stain on the covers and fixate there.

When he speaks again, his voice is quieter, barely above a soft mutter. “It hurts,” he admits quietly, and he doesn’t know why he’s saying this, why he’s confessing this all to Cas, when he is sometimes afraid to admit it even to himself. “I’m not saying I want us to go back to the way we were before- I know that’s impossible. But I don’t want him looking at me like I might slit his throat the moment he drops his guard. I can’t stand it, Cas. I just… can’t.”

Castiel’s voice is soft as he says, “Is that why you’ve been treating Sam so badly? Playing all those pranks on him… was that your way of getting back at him?”

Dean doesn’t answer. He scrubs a hand across his face tiredly. Demons don’t get tired, not really, but Dean feels exhausted, like he hasn’t slept in days.

“I’m sorry, Cas. I’m just so tired of all of this. This- this- _charade_ ,” he says, and he tries to ignore the way his voice breaks shamefully on the last word. “Like I’m ever gonna be human again. It was so freeing when I went full demon. Like all the cares and worries of the world just vanished. All the shame. All the guilt. All of it- every terrible thing I felt inside- just went away. It felt like I could do anything I wanted.”

He pauses, and the silence stretches for a long while before he finally says, voice barely above a whisper, “I guess… I just- I just wanted to feel a little like that again.”

Castiel’s blue eyes are large and mournful. “Dean…” he says quietly, but he is interrupted by a sharp buzzing noise that comes from Dean’s pocket. Grimacing, Dean plucks the phone out and glances at the screen.

It’s a text from Sam.

Scowling, Dean swipes at the screen to open up the message. What does Sam want now? What, calling isn’t good enough for him these days? Does the idea of talking to Dean disgust him so much that he’s resorted to texting?

Then, the scowl vanishes from his face. The message is just one line- three little words that threaten to make the bottom of Dean’s world fall out from beneath him yet again.

 _We have Sam_ , the message says simply.

 

\---

 

Sam jerks back to consciousness with a gasp when the cold water hits his face.

“That’s enough now, Sarah,” a man says gently.

Sam opens his eyes and squints into the light. His head throbs and it like it’s stuffed full of cotton wool. Through his blurry vision, he can make out a young blonde girl standing over him, a bucket of water in her hands. She looks like she can’t be any older than eight. Her face is strangely blank; she is watching him with a sort of detached curiosity, like he’s an interesting bug she’s studying. An older man in a smart, expensive-looking business suit is standing behind her, watching with obvious approval in his eyes. The thin wire-framed glasses perched on his nose give him a pleasant, affable look, like a bookish professor, but there is something terribly sharp and predatory about him, dark shapes moving under murky waters.

At some kind of signal from the man, the girl moves to Sam’s side, and Sam’s eyes widen slightly as she draws a thin dagger and places it against his throat. The blade doesn’t waver for an instant.

“Hello, Sam,” the man says pleasantly as he steps forward. The crow’s feet around his eyes crinkle as he smiles warmly at Sam. He looks so slimy and unctuous, he’s practically oozing. He reminds Sam of a less charming and more American version of Crowley.

Sam’s about ninety percent sure he’s a demon.

“What do you want?” Sam says bluntly.

As he speaks, he surreptitiously tests his bonds. His hands and feet are zip-tied together, and there’s a length of cable tying his torso to the chair. Damn it. What happened to using rope? One thing is for certain- someone has really gone to huge lengths to prevent him from escaping.

The man laughs, like Sam had just said something terribly amusing. “Blunt and to the point,” he says, “I like that about you Winchesters.”

Sam glares at him. “Who are you, and what the hell do you want with me?”

“You can call me Robert,” the man says, “That’s the name of the piece of meat I’m wearing. Robert Carlisle Davidson. Big shot corporate lawyer at some swanky Chicago mega law firm.” He smooths down the lapels of his suit, smiling winningly as Sam’s glare deepens.

The demon continues conversationally, “Robert’s a good person. Loving husband and father. One little boy, and a baby girl on the way. Does a lot of pro bono. He even gives blood every Sunday.” The demon rolls his eyes. “He’s so good, being in here makes me feel kind of dirty.”

Smirking at the unamused look on Sam’s face, the demon continues, tone musing, “This could’ve been you, you know, if you had stuck around in Stanford, instead of choosing to go gallivanting off with your brother on a fool’s chase.” He pauses contemplatively. “It’s funny, really, how our choices define us. You ever regret making that choice, Sam?”

Robert smiles pleasantly, but Sam just glares back mutely, not giving an inch. Since this guy seems to enjoy the sound of his own voice so much, Sam’s just going to let him monologue away to his heart’s content.

Robert is happy enough to indulge. When Sam does not answer, he simply sighs and continues speaking, “My real name is, of course, far more elegant. But you humans do have a nasty habit of mangling it. I do so tire of hearing it mispronounced. There are only so many tongues you can rip out before it starts losing its appeal. In any case, I’ll give you a hint-” The demon smiles indulgently, like he’s being terribly generous, “-Goethe got a few things right. My name was one of them.”

“As for what I want… let’s just say, you have something of ours, Sam, and Hell wants it back.”

Sam’s mouth goes dry. He can’t mean— surely, he doesn’t mean… Dean?

The demon grins delightedly at Sam. “Imagine my joy when a little birdie told me who had come poking around the construction site to take care of our little ghost problem. It was truly a stroke of serendipity. Some might even call it…” He smiles contemplatively. “ _Destiny_.”

“Dean won’t ever work for you,” Sam snaps, “He’ll never betray us.”

Robert flashes Sam a lazy grin. “You sure about that, champ? You forget- your brother is a demon. He’s one of us now.” He smirks triumphantly as Sam’s fists clench; he obviously knows how much it pains Sam to hear this, and he is just as obviously enjoying rubbing it in Sam’s face.

“Dean’s not like you,” Sam says angrily, “He’s been cured. He’s himself again, and he’s never going back.”

Robert shakes his head slowly, condescendingly. “Cured?” He laughs mockingly. “Did you really think that’d work forever?” Sam feels a jolt of fear, uncomfortably reminded of his nightmares about Dean.

“You chained him up, stripped him of his powers. You’ve kept him under lock and key like a prisoner. You think you’ve forced him back into humanity. Your tame wolf. Your good little demonic attack dog.” There is something like anger on the demon’s face, like he’s actually genuinely pissed off on Dean’s behalf. “You think you have him under control.”

“But don’t you see, Sam? You can’t keep his true nature at bay forever. You can tame a wolf, but it’ll turn on you eventually.”

He smiles, slow and dangerous. “Oh, Dean will be here, sooner or later. I have _you_. And everyone knows that where Sam Winchester is, Dean Winchester always comes running.” He smiles, and this time, it is laced with dark satisfaction. Sam struggles to keep his face straight, but some of his fear must have slipped onto his face because Robert laughs. “He’ll come back to us, one way or another. We’ll free him from his shackles, both literal and-” he smiles, dark and knowing, “metaphorical.”

Sam’s heart is racing. He knows it’ll never work, but he tries anyway. “ _Exorcizamus te_ —”

Robert snarls, and throws a hand out. Sam suddenly finds himself choking, but the pressure eases off after a few moments.

“Uh uh uh,” says Robert. “That’s not very nice of you. I thought we were having a _civilized_ conversation.” He speaks to the girl standing behind Sam, still holding the dagger to Sam’s throat. “Gag him the next time he tries anything like that again.”

Sam coughs and glares weakly at the demon. “Why- why do you even want Dean? He doesn’t exactly have a great history of working with authority.” A thought occurs to him. “Are you working for Crowley?”

“I don’t work for that sniveling coward,” Robert says with a derisive sneer. “I’m more of… an independent contractor. But say what you will about Crowley, that bastard’s got some good ideas, I’ll give him that. He recognizes the value of you Winchesters.” Robert shakes his head slowly, and he sounds almost reluctantly impressed as he says, “You just bulldoze everything in your path. Nothing can stand up to you. Not gods, not monsters, not all the generals of Hell, not even the Devil himself.”

Robert smiles at Sam. “I’m a big fan, see. I know all about you. I’ve read every book, cover to cover, even the unpublished ones, floating around on those scummy internet chat boards. You and Dean? You’re _legends_. What the others don’t get— tangling with you Winchesters? It’s suicide. Me? I want you on my team.”

There is something in his eyes that could almost be described as adulation as he smiles warmly at Sam.

 _Great_ , Sam’s been captured by the world’s evilest Winchester fan. Like a demonic Becky Rosen. Forget every bad thing he’s ever said about Becky, he’d take her over this guy any day. At least she had only tried to fondle his abs and magically lobotomize him into loving her.

Sam raises an eyebrow and gives the demon a thoroughly unimpressed look. “And yet here you are, tangling with us,” he remarks dryly. “Holding me hostage? I’m going to go out on a limb and say that’s gonna piss Dean off… _maybe just a little_.”

“He’ll get over it,” Robert says dismissively. He flashes Sam a small, sly smile, like they’re both in on some great secret. “Something tells me you two aren’t exactly on the best of terms nowadays.” He winks at Sam. “And once I remove the blinders from Dean’s eyes, once he’s returned to what he should truly be, you won’t mean a thing to him. You’ll be worse than _nothing_.” His smile turns cruel, and Sam grits his teeth.

“Dean will never go with you,” Sam says, trying to inject as much conviction into his tone as he can, “He won’t abandon us.” Looking defiantly into the demon’s eyes, Sam says, “I believe in him.”

Robert bursts out into mocking laughter. “Oh, I do so love the classic Winchester hypocrisy,” he says brightly. “You believe in him… enough to chain him up like a convict?”

As Sam glares in mute rage, he smiles, dark and knowing.

“Oh, I see the fear in your eyes, Sam. The doubt that you try to conceal. Deep down, you know everything I say is true. Your brother is a demon now, and no matter how much you try to pretend otherwise, no matter how much you try to make him play at being human, it’s nothing but an empty mask- a charade.”

“You know that one day he’s going to break free, and he’s going to throw off all the chains you’ve heaped on him. And it is going to be-” Robert smiles, his expression is almost reverent, “ _glorious._ ”

Sam stares at the demon and tries not to let his words get to him, but it’s like he’s fighting a losing battle. He manages to keep the hopelessness and despair off his face, glaring defiantly like he has nothing to fear, but inside, slowly, the gnawing, poisonous seed of doubt is beginning to grow.

 

\---

 

Dean paces around the room, feeling like he is going crazy. Dragged along by the cuffs, Castiel shuffles awkwardly after him.

“Dean, please stop this,” he says.

Dean ignores him.

His feet are probably wearing grooves into the cheap motel carpet, with the amount of pacing he’s been doing, but the nervous energy inside him is uncontainable. His mind is racing with fear and worry; he can’t keep still. He aches to do something, to fight, to _kill_ — but there is no target. All Dean has is one ominous text message, a sketchy description of a location given by a psychotic, less than stable ghost and the unshakeable certainty that demons have his brother and are planning to do things to him that are definitely _not good_.

“Dean, you have to calm down-”

Dean whirls on him, furious.

“Calm down? Are you seriously telling me to _calm down_ when Sam’s been kidnapped by demons?”

Castiel opens his mouth to speak, but Dean just shouts right over him. “I can’t fucking calm down! Sammy’s gone! God knows where he is. God knows what they’re doing to him!”

Dean whirls back around and begins pacing again. “Sam’s in danger, he could be _dead!_ How can you stand there so calmly and tell me to ‘ _calm down’_?”

He grabs at his forehead with both hands, clutching at his head like he might somehow magically squeeze out the location of Sam’s whereabouts from his brain if he just squeezed hard enough. He absolutely _hates_ the feeling of helpless frustration that is churning in the pits of his stomach.

“This is all my fault,” he says distantly. The words tumble out of his mouth, fast and urgent, in a stream of helpless desperation, “If I hadn’t had a row with him, he wouldn’t have stormed off in a snit, and he wouldn’t have gotten himself _kidnapped_ -” He lets out an inarticulate snarl of frustration. “They took Sam because of me, they’re doing this to get to _me—_ ”

“Dean, getting all worked up about this will only be counter-productive. We need to think about this logically-”

“I’m going to fucking murder whichever son of a bitch did this,” Dean growls, clenching his fists like he’s squeezing down on an imaginary demon’s windpipe. “I’m going to rip them apart, and scatter their entrails over four continents!”

His fingers spasm almost uncontrollably. “I’m going to make Hell look like a friggin’ vacation in the Bahamas!”

“Dean—”

Dean spins on Cas and says urgently, shoving the cuffs right in the angel’s face, “Cas, get the cuffs off now!”

Cas begins to protest, some nonsense about Sam and all the crap he said about not letting Dean out of the cuffs, but Dean speaks right over him, practically yelling, “I don’t give a flying fuck what Sam said! Get the cuffs off! This is a goddamn emergency, Cas!”

“Dean, this isn’t what Sam would want-”

“Screw what Sam wants!” Dean shouts, “As far as I’m concerned, Sam doesn’t get a friggin’ vote! He’s been kidnapped- they’re probably torturing him right now as we speak!” He gives Cas a withering glare. “What the hell is wrong with you?” he demands. “Sam says this, Sam says that- What’s the point of having free will if you won’t friggin’ use it? I thought you’d have learnt the importance of a bit of civil disobedience by now! You straight up rebelled against Heaven for fuck’s sake! Grow a pair!”

Cas looks back at him, face impassive, but there is something taut and brittle about his eyes. He doesn’t reply.

Dean glowers at Cas, disgusted. “You just don’t trust me, do you?” he says in a gruff mutter, voice hoarse with anger and hurt, “All your talk, and you trust me just about as much as Sam does-”

“Dean, that’s not true,” Cas protests, voice tight. “I—”

There is a touch of something that looks almost like hurt on Castiel’s face. Well, screw him, he doesn’t get to feel hurt when he’s the one treating Dean like this. Dean levels a hate-filled glare at him and shouts over Castiel, “You think I’m just gonna go darkside all over again just because you take off the cuffs? Screw you!”

Castiel’s expression closes off, the hurt in his eyes disappearing like a stone wall has descended over it. Stiffly, he says, “Can you look me in the eye and tell me that if I take these cuffs off, your first action won’t be to teleport off, lay waste to everything in your path, collateral damage be damned, just to get to Sam?”

Castiel’s gaze is intense, his blue eyes piercing. Dean’s mouth opens, but no words come out. He stares at Castiel in mute fury.

“Dean. Your judgment when it comes to your brother has always been… impaired. Even you must admit that. Surely, you can see why I might justifiably be anxious about letting you out of the handcuffs.”

Dean stays silent.

Deep down, he knows Cas is right. If the cuffs came off, Dean would do exactly Cas said he would. He’d rush straight off, slaughter everything in his way, monster or human, innocent or not, because _it’s Sam, damn it_ , and the thought kind of frightens him. All the powers of Hell at his fingertips? The kind of carnage he could wreak? Dean isn’t sure he’d be strong enough to resist the temptation.

Right now, comes the stark realization, these damned handcuffs and Cas are probably about the only things keeping him sane and in control.

Dean looks away, the righteous fury in him fading to cold, dead embers. The thought of what he might have done- what he had been _ready_ to do- leaves him feeling shaken, unsettled. He still hates the idea of the cuffs staying on, of being powerless when Sam’s in the demons’ hands, but he’ll listen to Cas… for now, at least.

“Fine,” he tells Cas gruffly. “But you damn well better pull your own weight this time. None of that pacifist, ‘against my conscience’ bullshit. You see a demon that’s not me? You smite the everloving crap out of it.”

Castiel gives him an extremely unimpressed and grouchy look that clearly says “ _Duh. What the hell do you think I’ve been doing for the past few millennia of my existence before you came along? Are you actually trying to tell me how to do my job, you stupid mud monkey?_ ’

Dean decides to let that slide. They’ve got bigger fish to fry right now.

“First, we gotta find out where Sam is.” Dean scowls. “That means paying that damn ghost another visit. Hope you’re ready to take off the kid gloves this time, Cas, ‘cause I am _so_ done screwing around with that little sucker.”

 

\---

 

As they wait in silence for Dean’s arrival, the demon pacing around the room with long languid strides, the girl an ever-present, unwavering presence at Sam’s side, Sam keeps sneaking glances, trying his best to glance sideways at the girl holding the knife to his throat without making it too obvious.

From what Sam can make out from the corner of his eyes, the girl certainly looks human. Demons usually aren’t quite as expressionless as that. They tend to smirk a lot more.

In contrast to Robert’s lazy, careless smiles, the blank, dead-eyed expression on the girl’s face is chilling. There’s something dreadfully familiar about that look, but Sam can’t put a finger on it.

Sam must have stared for a moment too long because the demon stops pacing and he smiles.

“I see you’re wondering about Sarah,” he remarks offhandedly as he walks over to place two hands on her shoulders, almost fondly. “I’m really rather fond of her.” He smiles indulgently at Sarah, who looks blankly back at him, her expression bored. “The perfect killer. My perfectly obedient little soldier.”

Robert turns his smile on Sam, and there is something terribly pleased and knowing about his expression. “You’d know how that feels, wouldn’t you, Sam?”

He pauses for effect, watching with a delighted smile as slow realization dawns on Sam’s face.

“Life without a soul,” Robert says conversationally, “You do whatever is most logical- the most conducive to your survival.”

He pats the girl’s head fondly, stroking her long blonde hair. His gentleness is almost obscene. “And for Sarah here, that means working with me.” He smiles darkly. “Her father’s killer.”

The girl doesn’t even flinch, just allows Robert to continue stroking her hair in some awful parody of a loving gesture.

Sam stares in horror. Soul mining. He should have known. He had shut down Abaddon’s operations in that church in Milton, but he knew that hadn’t been the end of it.

He spits in disgust, “You’re despicable.”

Robert laughs, smiling like Sam had just paid him some great compliment.

“So this is your great plan- stealing souls to build an army? Using the bodies left behind as your cannon fodder?”

Robert gives Sam a knowing smirk. “Fishing for information, Sam?”

He laughs at the stiff expression on Sam’s face. “Oh, I guess you deserve to know. After all, you and your brother were the ones who brought down my former boss. Allowed me to progress up the food chain, take over this neat little outfit. Now, I answer to no one but myself. There are perks, I have to say, to being one’s own boss.”

He smiles at Sam, but Sam just looks back stonily.

Nevertheless, Robert continues on, tone indulgent, “I’m rather proud of this operation. We take people nobody would miss- the homeless, the loners, little orphan girls whose parents we've killed-” Gaze lingering meaningfully on Sarah, he smiles at Sam, slow and deliberate, and it’s just _sick._ “- and we cut out their souls. Then, we make them an offer- work for us and live. Refuse, and well, here’s another meatsuit for one of my guys.” He grins, obviously extremely pleased by his own genius. “Waste not, want not. I believe in recycling.”

He laughs dryly at his own joke. He seems to think he’s so damn amusing. Sam wants to feed him his own guts.

“Everything was all going so swimmingly until your little ghostly friend decided to bumble in one night. Threw a real wrench into things. We had to relocate, thanks to him. But well, you know what they say about clouds and silver linings. Terrence Ellison brought you here, Sam. I guess I should thank him for that. Maybe I’ll have his own daughter burn his bones- what do you think about that?” He smiles, careless and cruel.

Sam doesn’t even bother to reply to that. “So what now?” he asks the demon, “You’re gonna use me as a bargaining chip? Threaten to kill me if Dean doesn’t go with you?”

Robert just smiles and doesn’t answer.

“Go ahead,” Sam says challengingly, “Kill me. I don’t care.” He gives the demon a long, hard stare. “I was more than willing to die to seal the gates of Hell. I still am.” After a beat, he adds, “Besides, I’m sure Dean will just make Cas resurrect me anyway after he ganks your sorry ass.”

He flashes the demon a small, taunting smirk, but Robert doesn’t rise to the bait. Instead, his eyes crinkle in laughter and he says, an amused smile on his face, “You do have a point, Sam. I guess for a Winchester… death isn’t really that major a disincentive.”

The demon slowly pulls an angel blade from his pocket. “But I have some better ideas about what would be.”

Despite his brave words earlier, Sam cannot help but feel a tremor of fear pass through him at the sight of Robert smiling, stroking a finger lightly across the sharp edge of his blade. The demon notices Sam’s gaze lingering on his blade and laughs.

Sam grits his teeth, steeling himself for the torture to come. But torture, it seems, is not what Robert had in mind.

Smiling thinly, he presses down onto the blade, and beads of bright red well up from the cut. Sam’s gaze is drawn irresistibly to the blood, and he stares at it in horrified fascination.

Robert grabs Sam’s chin roughly in one hand, and twists Sam’s face to face him. He leans in, still smiling and presses his hand towards Sam’s mouth. Flinching away from the hand being pressed into his face, Sam struggles desperately against his bonds, bucking so violently that he almost overturns the chair he is tied to. He can hear Robert’s loud, cruel barks of laughter. The demon seems terribly amused by Sam’s efforts to jerk away from his hand. Finally, chuckling softly, he releases Sam from his grip. He’s made his point.

“You think drinking Ruby’s blood was good?” he says, “Wait till you try mine.”

His eyes flash yellow, and he smiles, slow and triumphant as for the first time since Sam was captured, true fear begins to show in Sam’s wide eyes.

“Why should I go to all that trouble, slicing your soul out, when I could just slit my wrists, give you some of the good stuff? There’s no need for any of that slow, tedious nonsense with the soul jars, not when a few drops of my blood would work just as well to turn those pretty eyes of yours black.”

Sam shudders, trying to hide the fear in his eyes, but he probably fails miserably. Robert smiles, pleased.

“Do you know how Cain became a demon, Sam? He agreed to take Lucifer’s mark and serve the Devil so as to spare his brother from a similar fate.” Robert’s voice is low, slyly amused. “Do you think Dean will make the same choice? His service in place of your corruption?” He smiles brightly. “I can’t wait to find out. I do so love a perfect symmetry.”

Robert laughs, cruel and mocking, and the sound fills Sam with dread. Smiling at Sam gently, he strokes one bloody finger down Sam’s face, leaving a trail of cloying wet stickiness on Sam’s cheek.

“And if Dean refuses to join me, I still win. All I have to do is finish what Azazel started all those years ago...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for what my dear beta Carzla informs me is an evil cliffie. This was originally planned to be part of a single chapter resolving the entire case plot, but things got away from me and the word count exploded. Now, my originally planned one chapter is split tentatively into three. I realize I kind of have a problem with verbosity (yeaahhh understatement of the year) T_T It's terrible.


	14. Choices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean finally gets to kill some things, and is faced with a difficult choice. At the end of the day, can a demon still be a hero?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is really equal parts silly and serious. Hopefully there’s not too much mood whiplash. I would like to apologize in advance for the awful closet joke. (You’ll know what I mean when you get to it.) In hindsight, I feel faintly ashamed of my sense of humour, which is probably about as refined as that of most five year olds. 
> 
> **WARNING** for violence I guess. Things get a bit bloody.

They appear in the middle of the empty construction site in a flutter of wings.

The first thing Dean does is start yelling, loud enough to wake the dead. Literally, in this case.

“Terrence Ellison!” he bellows. The echoes of his voice can probably be heard for miles. He feels like King Kong, on top of the Empire State Building, beating at his chest and roaring out a fierce challenge. “Come and face me, you son of a bitch!”

Spinning in a circle, he surveys the empty construction site. In the moonlight, the shapes of the half-completed buildings are like hulking behemoths. There is no sign of the ghost. “Well, what are you waiting for? Come out and get me!”

Still nothing.

“Don’t you wanna kill me? Well, take your best shot, motherfucker! I’m back, you little bitch!”

A few moments of ringing silence pass after Dean’s thunderous shout. Yet, the construction site remains annoyingly ghost-free.

Dean curses loudly, a stream of blasphemous profanity that has Castiel frowning disapprovingly at him. Striding forward, he drags Castiel along by the cuffs, forcing the angel to break into a fast trot to keep up.

“Where is that friggin’ ghost?” he mutters angrily, “Why won’t the damn thing show up when we actually want it to?”

He takes a deep breath before opening his mouth to roar, “Where are you, Ellison? You spineless coward! You want a piece of me? I’m here, fucking come and get me, you lazy ass motherfucker—”

In a flicker, the ghost appears right in front of him. Its eyes are filled with venomous hate, its lips twisted in a vicious snarl.

“You’ve got guts coming back here, demon,” it hisses. “Looks like you’re stupider than I—”

Dean doesn’t let it finish. Gritting his teeth in fierce concentration, he lunges forward. As his hand shoots out to make a grab for the ghost, he takes all the vicious anger, all the desperation and frantic worry churning in him and he channels it into pure force of will. For a split second, he thinks it’s not going to work- his fingers are just going to pass harmlessly through- but then the ghost solidifies under his grasp. Shock registers on its features as Dean grabs it by the throat, tightly enough that if it had been a normal human, its neck would have snapped in an instant.

For a brief moment, Dean is overcome by relief. He can’t believe that actually worked, what with the cuffs being on— then he remembers the situation, and he slams the ghost down hard with a loud crash that shakes the ground and sends gravel flying.

“I am well and truly done screwing around,” he growls into the ghost’s ear and it is so wonderfully satisfying to finally see Ellison’s eyes widen in fear. “You are going to tell me everything you know about the demons- starting with their location. Start talking. _Now_.”

The ghost looks utterly baffled for a moment, but then it snarls, the fear and confusion in its eyes replaced by scornful hate as it glares furiously up at him. “Why should I tell you anything, demon?” it spits, “Don’t you already know everything that’s going on with your little friends?”

Absolutely livid, Dean lets out a snarl of inarticulate rage. “You know what? That is it! I am so sick of people assuming I know shit about demons just because I am one! What is this? Racial profiling?”

He presses down hard, his grip vice-like on the ghost’s throat and says, voice low and threatening, “Listen carefully, you son of a bitch. You start talking or the angel here is going to smite you into so many atoms. I’m gonna ask you again and this time you better answer. Where. Are. The. Demons?”

The ghost’s face hardens, and Dean recognizes with dismay the ‘fuck you’ expression that it’s wearing right now. It’s the look of a guy who’s willing to cut off his nose to spite his face. Dean knows all too well that stubborn, spiteful impulse- he’s had it all too many times himself- and he knows exactly how hard it is to change the mind of someone who’s being like that. He looks down at the ghost with a sinking feeling in the pits of his stomach.

“Go ahead and vaporize me,” the ghost says challengingly. “I’ll never tell you.” The smile on its face is tight, tinged with dark triumph. “I’ll never give you the _satisfaction_ , you black-eyed bitch.” It sneers at Dean’s frustrated expression, and laughs mockingly.

Dean snarls. They don’t have the time to go all Guantanamo on this little shit’s ass. Sam’s clock is ticking, and Dean doesn’t know how much time he has left. It could be hours, minutes, _seconds_ — and just to think: Sammy’s gonna die, all because some asshole hunter hates Dean for being a demon.

It’s so stupid. It’s just so friggin’ stupid. So terribly unfair. A red haze of anger overtakes Dean. He wants nothing more than to smash his fist into the ghost’s laughing face and beat it again and again until it screams and starts begging for mercy. In the background, he dimly hears Castiel saying something, telling Dean to calm down, not to do anything rash. His words barely register.

But the grip on his shoulder does. Dean looks up to see the hand Cas has laid on his left shoulder. Whether by coincidence or deliberate design, it is right over where the scar of Castiel’s handprint used to be. Cas is looking at him, earnest and concerned, and there’s something about the way he’s looking at Dean that makes the rage lessen, the urge for aggression become less acute- and though Dean still wants ever so dearly to hit something, he is able to restrain himself, even if it’s just barely. Grimacing, he turns back to face the ghost.

“You sad, bitter bastard,” he growls. “I don’t care what kind of personal vendetta you have against demons- or what you think about me. Those demons have _my brother_. You remember him? The tall guy? Hunter? The one who was actually trying to save your sorry ass?” Dean has to stop for a moment to take a deep breath, he’s that worked up. Sneering, he spits, “That’s my brother, you fucking ignorant asshat.”

He glares viciously in response to the ghost’s growing look of baffled, disbelieving shock. “Yeah, what a surprise, the demon has a brother! Well, guess what, dickhead? Sam’s been kidnapped by those damned demons you were telling him about. Probably ‘cause they want to get back at me. I’m not exactly very popular with the other ‘ _black-eyed bitches_ ’. Most of them want to redecorate their walls with my guts.”

He leans in close, staring straight into the ghost’s eyes, expression hard. “You wanna kill me? Get in line. If I survive this, I’ll let you have a go at me, squeeze my filthy demon heart however much you want. You can dismember me, turn me into a pulp, whatever, I don’t care. All I want is one thing in return- give me the location of that warehouse, so I can rescue my brother.”

He releases the ghost from his grasp, and watches as it slowly straightens up. The ghost looks back at Dean, and there’s an expression of disbelieving wonder on its face. “You care,” it says slowly. It looks at Dean like it can’t really believe the words coming out of its own mouth. “You really do care... About what happens to him… your brother.”

Dean gives it a sour look. “Yeah, surprise, surprise, the demon has a heart. Whoop-de-fucking-doo.”

The ghost looks at him with a strange look on its face. It doesn’t speak. Dean wonders whether it actually believes him or if it’s going to explode into anger again, go vengeful spirit on their asses and try to take Dean’s head off again. The way Dean’s life has been going? The latter is pretty fucking likely.

Then, suddenly, the ghost speaks up.

“Take me with you,” it says. “I’ll show you where the demons are. But take me with you.”

Okay, that’s nice. It’s cooperating. Finally. But what the heck, man? Dean’s not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, but he’s gonna have enough on his plate without dragging the friggin’ psycho ghost that tried to kill him along on this rescue mission. He frowns at the ghost dubiously.

“My daughter,” the ghost says quietly, “Sarah. The demons took her too.” It looks up at Dean, and there is no more anger on its face, only despair. “The ones that came here to taunt me told me they had cut away her soul.”

Dean draws a sharp breath. Soul mining. Sam had told him about this before, back when they were hunting Abaddon. This isn’t good. He exchanges a worried look with Cas.

The ghost looks at Dean urgently. “I have to find her. I have to save her,” it says, voice pleading, and abruptly, the way it had started to soften towards him after Dean talked about Sam makes sense. Terrence Ellison had lost someone too, someone precious to him. Dean has been in that situation far too many times for his liking. He understands all too well what grief and loss can twist you into, the things they can make you do. The urge for blind vengeance consuming everything. He feels a pang of unexpected, unwanted sympathy.

“Alright, Casper,” he barks out with an irritated glare, because he’s not completely forgiven Ellison for his asshole attitude, however understandable it might be, “You can tag along.”

Castiel’s lips curl into an approving smile, and Dean’s heart feels just the slightest bit lighter, despite the terrible situation they’re in.

“Where’s your body?” he asks the dead hunter. “Any special requests for when we go digging through your corpse? Favorite body parts? Little finger? Big toe?” He raises an eyebrow dryly.

Terrence gives him an unimpressed look. “Just take my cross, smartass,” he says gruffly, and behind Dean, Castiel breaks into surprised laughter. Dean rolls his eyes. So that’s how it’s going to be, then?

“Religious, huh?” he comments. Jerking his head towards Cas, he says, “You’ve been awfully disrespectful to the Angel of the Lord here.”

Ellison’s face twists into a pained grimace.

“I stopped believing a long time ago,” he says, voice rough, “With everything that’s happened, all the shit that’s gone down these past few years- how could I continue to have faith in a benevolent, all-loving God?” And boy does Dean know exactly what he means. A distant, sad look comes onto Terrence’s face and he looks down at his hands. “But my wife gave me that cross. She believed, and so I held onto it for her. She had faith enough for the two of us.”

He looks up at Dean, gaze intense. “What about you, demon? I thought your kind had no truck with Heaven. What are you doing working together with an angel?”

Dean swallows hard.

“Long story,” he says. “Let’s just go find your cross. There’s no time to waste.”

 

\---

 

“So what’s the plan?” Dean asks Castiel, hefting the salt-loaded shotgun in his hands. “Storm the castle? Kick down the gates?”

He watches the warehouse carefully, trying to spot any demons, but there doesn’t seem to be any activity. Dean’s willing to bet his life that there’s a small army inside though. The demons know they’re coming, after all. They’re pretty much walking into a trap.

“That would not be a wise idea,” says Castiel. “They have hostages. We need to take a more… subtle approach. Stealth would be our best option.”

“Agreed,” says Terrence Ellison as he appears with a flicker, and Dean startles. He had almost forgotten the ghost was with them. His hand goes towards the cross that he has stashed in his jacket pocket.

“You two sneak in,” Terrence tells them in a commanding, business-like tone. “Keep your heads down while I scout.” He eyes Dean and Cas distastefully. “The two of you are like flashing beacons.” His gaze lingers on Castiel. “Especially you. You’re a freaking glow stick.”

Dean doesn’t like the idea of letting the ghost do all their dirty work for them, but he has to admit Terrence has a point. Cas isn’t exactly inconspicuous. To Dean’s supernatural senses, he’s like a miniature sun, a blazing supernova crammed in human form. He’s unmistakable, all bright light and glowing goodness. Looking at him like that makes everything pale in comparison, drab and boring, the world fading to dull shades of grey around that one bright shining point. It’s one of the reasons Dean doesn’t like to keep his ‘supernatural vision’ on. It reminds him too much of things Dean would much rather stay buried.

Dean takes a deep breath, brushing the uncomfortable thoughts from his mind. Sam’s counting on them. He needs to get his game on.

“Alright,” he says brusquely to Ellison, “Just make sure you don’t get yourself caught again.”

The dead hunter glares at Dean grumpily. “I think you should worry more about yourself and the angel. You two yahoos are about as subtle as a herd of stampeding elephants.”

Dean scowls. “I’m a master of stealth when I want to be,” he tells Ellison haughtily. “C’mon, Cas. Let’s show Ellison how the pros do it.”

 

\---

 

Ten minutes later, Dean begins to think that maybe he shouldn’t have made that boast.

Glaring furiously at the back of Castiel’s head, he declares in a low growl, “This hiding spot _blows_.”

Castiel makes an impatient shushing noise. “Quiet, Dean,” he hisses. “Do you _want_ to get caught?”

Dean squirms uncomfortably. He had thought his day couldn’t get any worse, but it seems the universe is out to prove him wrong. Getting caught by patrolling demons is starting to seem like a more and more attractive option.

“I just don’t see why we have to hide in a _closet_ ,” he mutters angrily. “There are plenty of other places to hide in this friggin’ warehouse. Like the storage containers. Why couldn’t you have chosen a storage container?”

He is acutely aware of exactly how compromising their current position is, squished together in a supply closet, Dean’s chest to Castiel’s back. Castiel’s ass is pushing right against Dean’s crotch, and he is so close that Dean can smell him, ozone and petrichor, like lightning and rain and thunder, a force of nature. Pressed this close, he can feel Castiel’s every breath and movement.

Grimacing, Dean tries to remind himself of the gravity of their situation- there are a bunch of soulless people running around, Sam’s been kidnapped, probably tortured, and the demons most likely have them vastly outnumbered and outgunned. But even those ominous thoughts can’t quite distract him from the feel of Castiel’s body pressed right against his, warm and solid. He desperately wills himself not to show any reaction. Given their current position, Cas would definitely feel _everything_.

Dean cannot see Castiel’s face, but he can definitely hear the glare in Castiel’s voice as he says, “When I saw the patrol, I acted quickly. This was the best option at hand. Nobody’s going to think of checking in here. Now, keep quiet or they’ll hear us.”

As Castiel shifts, his hair tickles Dean’s throat. It is pure agony. Dean’s holding himself stiffly, pushed as far from Cas as possible, but it’s not helping. Not at all.

Dean needs to be strong. He needs to do this. For Sammy. His brother needs him, he tells himself. His beloved little brother— _Jesus_. Cas just moved. Dean chokes back a noise that would probably have sounded terribly indecent had it escaped his mouth, all thoughts of Sam flying out of his head. The pressure against his dick is like sweet torture. It should be criminal for someone to feel so awkward and so aroused at the same time.

Pulse racing, Dean tries his best to push himself away from Castiel, but the tight space of the closet is barely enough for one grown man, let alone two. Dean’s head knocks into something wooden and hard and he lets out a string of furious curses as Castiel frantically tries to shush him.

“Dean,” the angel tells him sternly, “Stop fidgeting.”

“Seriously, what the hell man?” Dean hisses as he glares at the back of Castiel’s head. “Your elbows are like pokers. They’re mauling my stomach. Can you maybe move a little to the other side?” And Dean’s not even lying. Castiel’s elbows really are jabbing right into his flesh. But the elbow-induced agony is of relatively little concern as compared to the other far more intense sensations Castiel’s proximity is engendering in Dean.

“ _Dean_ ,” comes Castiel’s angry whisper, “ _Shut up_.”

Dean is getting desperate. “You know what? We should just go out. Do we really need to be so stealthy? I mean- we could probably take ‘em all, don’t you think?”

Castiel’s voice is steely as he says, “What about Sam? What about all the other humans?” He sighs and says, tone softer, “Dean, I realize this is not the most comfortable position. But just bear with it a little longer, alright? Until we can be sure the coast is clear.”

Dean grunts angrily and falls into sullen silence.

After about a minute, he says, “Seriously, those elbows.”

Cas huffs and tries to rearrange himself, but all he does is turn himself around, so that now they are both facing each other. It is even worse. Their noses are almost touching.

Dean closes his eyes and says weakly, “Cas, I think it was better previously. Can you… turn back now…Please?”

“Dean, stop complaining. They’ll hear us. Shush.”

Dean grits his teeth and tries to think of anything other than the feel of Castiel’s warm, solid mass pressed up against him. Castiel’s breaths puff against his cheek, feathery light touches of air. Dean thinks he might just go mad soon.

Voice strained, he says, “Cas, do you mind not breathing?” He opens his eyes so as to glare at the angel. “Why do you even need to breathe anyway? Stop it.”

Grouchily, Cas says in a low mutter, “I’m sorry, Dean. I wasn’t aware my breathing troubled you.” He gives Dean an accusing look. “Why don’t _you_ stop breathing?”

Dean scowls at him defensively. “It’s automatic, okay? I get panicky when I don’t do it. I’ve been a human my whole life. It’s ingrained. What’s your excuse?”

Cas glares back hotly as he hisses, “My vessel does it automatically too. It takes a conscious effort of will for me to stop it.”

“Then stop it,” Dean says.

“Fine. You stop it too,” Cas bites out.

They both hold their breaths and stare at each other. It isn’t any better.

“Stop staring at me,” Dean hisses.

Cas gives him an extremely grumpy look as he says exasperatedly, “Where else am I supposed to look?”

“I don’t know! Close your eyes?”

Castiel’s grumpy frown deepens. “ _You_ close your eyes. I need to keep watch in case anything happens.”

“What exactly are you keeping watch on in this closet?” Dean says cuttingly, “The mop heads? The insides of my nostrils? Because that’s about all you can see right now.”

Cas gives Dean an extremely fed up look. “For the last time, Dean, shut up.”

Dean groans in frustration. “Why did you have to choose this spot, all of the hiding spots, in the whole damn warehouse? For god’s sake, Cas, you may have no sense of personal boundaries, but the rest of us do! So can we please just-”

The door opens, and Cas and Dean are faced with a surprised-looking demon, who is staring at them in unvarnished shock. They stare at each other for one horribly awkward long drawn-out moment before the demon seems to recall himself. He opens his mouth to bellow a warning.

Quick as a flash, Castiel has one hand on the demon’s face, covering his mouth. There is a flare of grace and searing white light that has Dean instinctively flinching away. The empty meatsuit topples to the ground, the demon inside burnt away to nothingness. This all happens in the space of less than one second. It’s quick, brutal and devastatingly efficient.

Dazed (and more than slightly aroused, though he would die before admitting it), Dean just gapes at Castiel.

“What?” Cas says irritably, completely misinterpreting Dean’s slack-jawed expression.

That is how Terrence Ellison finds them. He appears in a flicker, taking in the scene and the body on the floor in a glance. One eyebrow goes up as he comments dryly, "Great job staying hidden.”

Then he seems to realize their awkward position. Looking between Cas and Dean, still squished together in the closet, and the disgruntled expression on Dean’s face, Ellison smirks. “Sorry, was I interrupting something? Didn’t know it was _that_ kind of angel-demon relationship.” Chuckling, he says, one eyebrow arched sardonically, “You boys gonna come out of the closet now?”

He winks at Dean.

Ha ha ha. So funny. Dean is not at all amused.

Cas receives this remark with the same amount of blank solemnity that he receives most pronouncements, which probably means the joke has either flown entirely over his head, or he is utterly indifferent. With Cas, it could really go either way.

Dean, on the other hand, gives Ellison a withering glare. Cursing, he struggles to extricate himself from his awkward position, dislodging a few stacks of boxes on the way. Beside him, Castiel manages to wriggle out with a significantly greater amount of grace.

“What have you found?” Castiel asks, face solemn.

“This warehouse is crawling with demons, no surprise there,” Terrence replies, “I found the storage shelves where they’ve been keeping the souls. They’ve got hundreds of those things. Lined up neatly, rows and rows of them. Like some fucking factory. _Those monsters_ —” His face twists, an edge of feral anger beginning to darken his expression.

“Woah there,” Dean says, “This is no time to be hulking out. Cool your thrusters, buster. Don’t get all vengeful on us now.”

The dead hunter shoots Dean a dirty look, but he seems to get his anger under control with an effort of will.

“What about my brother?” Dean asks, “Did you find him?”

“There’s a room at the other end of this building. It’s heavily guarded… and there are all these weird glowing squiggles on the walls. I didn’t manage to peek in, but I think it’s pretty safe to say that’s where your brother is. There’s practically a small army camped around the entrance.”

Dean looks at Castiel, worried. “Enochian sigils?” he says.

Castiel nods. “Most likely. They do know we are coming.”

Troubled, Dean looks down at the cuffs, but his gaze jerks back up when he feels Castiel’s hand on his shoulder. “We’ll deal with it when it comes up, Dean,” Cas tells him firmly, “We always do.”

Dean’s lips lift into a humorless smile. “Hope springs eternal, eh Cas?”

Team Free Will, saving the world with endless optimism and lots of sheer dumb luck. It’s a miracle they’ve made it so far. But somehow, make it they have. Here’s to hoping that luck lasts them just a little longer.

He turns to Ellison.

“Cas and I will go get Sam and gank the head hell bitch who’s responsible for all this. You free the souls, act as bait and distraction, keep the minions busy. In short, just kill as many of those sons of bitches as you can. If you give them half as much hell as you gave me, they’ll be howling for their mummies. Sounds good?”

Ellison’s scarred face splits into a huge grin, fierce and grimly eager. The thought of killing demons obviously excites him very much.

Dean’s answering grin is just on the side of feral. He shares Ellison’s sentiments exactly.

Hefting his shotgun, he declares, “Time to get this show on the road.”

\---

 

“Show time,” Robert drawls with a slow smile. He straightens up from where he had been reclining lazily against the wall, watching Sam squirm. Sam looks askance at him, puzzled at Robert’s abrupt pronouncement.

Then, from somewhere far away comes the sound of smashing glass and the crash of metal. Following shortly after is a lot of shouting and frantic screaming. It sounds like absolute chaos out there, a veritable symphony of death and destruction.

There has never been a more welcome sound.

Yup, Dean’s definitely arrived. And from the sound of things, he’s doing what he does best. In other words, kicking demon ass.

Despite knowing exactly what the demons intend to do to his brother, Sam feels some of the fear lift from his heart just knowing that Dean is coming.

Robert is looking towards the door with delighted anticipation in his eyes. There is an air of bright cheeriness about him that makes the insides of Sam’s stomach twist. Sam half expects him to start rubbing his hands in glee any moment now. He looks like a child waiting for Christmas to come. It’s disgusting.

“If I were you, I wouldn’t be so glad,” Sam says.

Robert turns back to throw Sam a look of derision.

“Crowley thought he could control Dean too,” Sam tells the demon, “Look where that got him.”

“Trash-talk, Sam?” Robert says scornfully. He waves a hand dismissively at Sam. “ _Please_. I thought we were above this.”

“Sounds like things aren’t going too well for your side out there,” Sam continues. “That’s a lot of screaming. Probably a lot of dead demons. Dean and Cas? This is like a stroll on the beach for them. Did you really think if you threw enough demons at them, that’d stop Dean? He’s gonna cut through your goons like a hot knife through butter.”

Robert doesn’t seem even faintly disturbed by Sam’s words, or the loud battle that appears to be taking place outside.

“Who said anything about stopping Dean?” Robert says with an air of careless indifference. “This is more of… a taste of what’s to come.” He looks over at Sam, smiling slyly like he’s letting Sam in on some great secret. “Whetting his appetite.”

Sam feels sick. He probably shouldn’t be surprised. Robert’s already established himself as an evil douchebag of the highest order. But still, ordering his subordinates to their deaths just to remind Dean of the joys of murder? That’s a bit much, even for an asshole like him.

Not to mention a total waste of resources. How does this guy even find people willing to work for him?

Glaring murderously at Robert, Sam spits, “Dean doesn’t take well to people who try to control him and tell him what to do. Believe me- I speak from personal experience. And you know what? There’s only one thing he hates more than people who try to manipulate him, and that’s people who try to hurt me.”

“When Dean gets here?” He smiles coldly at Robert. “You’re going down, and you’re going down _hard._ ”

 

\---

 

From somewhere nearby, Dean can hear a lot of glass shattering and angry yelling. He grins with approval. That’s their cue.

As Ellison wreaks havoc, pushing over shelves and shelves of soul jars to the sweet chorus of angry screaming from the crowd of demons following him, Dean runs pell-mell towards the other end of the warehouse together with Cas, and they mow their way through whatever pockets of resistance they find along the way.

Fighting demons turns out to be just as much fun as Dean remembers.

They have a few false starts before Cas realizes that fighting while handcuffed to Dean means that he can’t just go running up to demons and start smiting them willy nilly while dragging Dean around like a stray sack of potatoes that he unfortunately happens to be attached to. Dean for his part almost shoots Cas a few times when the angel accidentally gets into his way. But they soon get into the rhythm of things, and it is surprisingly easy to fall into a practiced pattern, Dean shooting demons in the face and Cas taking advantage of their distraction to smite them as they scream in agony.

Cas will yell, “To your right!” and Dean will shoot. Dean will yell, “Duck!” before shooting over Castiel’s head. When the demons threaten to overwhelm them, Cas will announce, “Moving,” before grabbing Dean to teleport. The two of them work together like a well-oiled machine and it’s like they’ve been fighting together their whole lives.

It’s a great feeling, having Cas at his back, knowing that the angel is there to watch his six. And not just because Cas is absolutely amazing, a total badass, smiting demons like there’s no tomorrow and ploughing through the opposition like they’re wet tissue paper.

Cheerily and without a shred of remorse, Dean flings holy water out with wild abandon and watches in glee as the demons scream, steam rising from their flesh. It feels so satisfying to once again not be the one on the receiving end of that trick.

It doesn’t help that the demons have distressingly little respect for him. In a startlingly foolish move, random demon minion number ten decides to mouth off at Dean, apparently because it’s too stupid to live.

“If it isn’t Crowley’s newest bitch,” the demon sneers, “What happened to you, hotshot? Got yourself neutered and chained to an angel?” It laughs scornfully at Dean. “So much for the big, bad Knight of Hell.”

Snarling, Dean tells it, “I am going to end you. _Painfully_.”

“Dean,” Castiel says warningly, placing a hand on Dean’s arm and squeezing gently.

The demon nods, smirking. “Yeah, that’s right. Better listen to the halo, fido. _Down, boy._ ”

Dean growls, low and threatening. “Screw you. I don’t have to take this shit.”

The shotgun jerks in his hand as he shoots the demon point blank in the face. It screams, clutching at its face. Cas surges forward and lays his hand on its head. Still screaming, it dies in a searing flash of light.

Dean pumps his shotgun with a resounding click. It is extremely satisfying. Grinning, he says, “Who’s next?”

The remaining demons look appropriately unnerved, but they attack nonetheless, like sheep coming to the slaughter. Dean loses his gun sometime during the ensuing fight, but being disarmed doesn’t faze him in the least. Instead, he just starts fighting hand-to-hand, which works even better, surprisingly. Dean grabs demons and helpfully holds them still as Castiel ruthlessly and efficiently burns them clean from their meatsuits.

As a demon charges at Dean, Cas grabs Dean and lifts him up so that Dean can kick it in the face. It drops with a pained yelp. Cas promptly swings Dean around so that Dean can kick the next demon that comes charging at them. It falls to the ground with a pained grunt, clutching at its stomach. Swiftly, Castiel lunges down. His hands shoot out to grasp both demons’ heads. Screaming, they burn up in twin blazes of white light.

It’s kind of amazing how well the two of them are working together, like clockwork. Dean can’t help the huge grin on his face, though it probably makes him look kind of deranged.

“Here,” says Cas and Dean turns around to see Castiel holding out his angel blade to Dean, handle first. Dean stares at him.

“What?” he says, staring dubiously down at the blade he takes from Castiel’s hand. “Really?”

“I trust you,” Castiel says simply, and then, “Duck.” He reaches over Dean’s head and grabs a demon in the face. It burns out in an explosion of bright light.

Another demon comes at them. Dean and Castiel bring up their arms at the same time and the demon finds itself running smack into the chain of the handcuffs. It topples to the ground, a comically surprised expression on its face. Dean doesn’t waste any time in stabbing it. The angel blade sinks into its chest and it lights up like a firework, screaming.

Straightening up, Dean grins at Castiel and the angel grins back.

In his hand, Castiel’s blade is a solid reassuring weight. Dean can almost swear he can feel it tingling against his skin, thrumming with power. It feels so good to have a proper weapon again. But more than that- there’s something heartfelt and tender stirring in him at the touch of Castiel’s blade, grasped tightly in his fingers, the knowledge that Castiel trusts him enough to give him a weapon with which Dean could use to kill him effortlessly.

The gesture of trust warms Dean, and as he leaps back into the fight, Castiel at his side, he thinks, _You know what? We can do this. We’re big damn heroes and we’re here to save the day._

\---

 

The last demon dies in a flash of red light. Dean yanks the bloodied angel blade out of its chest and straightens up. He turns to look at Castiel, who is staring at something, gaze solemn and uncharacteristically troubled. Dean follows the angel’s gaze. Cas is looking at the glowing symbols covering the walls, and there is something like alarm in his expression.

Crap. Is that stuff angel-proofing? Won’t be the first time they’ve had demons pull that trick on them.

“Can you enter the room?” Dean asks worriedly.

Even if Cas removes the cuffs and lets Dean go in alone- something which Dean seriously doubts Cas will do, given his numerous and repeated objections to the idea- Dean finds that he doesn’t want to go in there without the angel.

It’s ridiculous, really. Dean knows he can handle himself well enough without the cuffs on, maybe even better. And Cas isn’t his damn security blanket. Or his personal shoulder angel. Surely, Dean doesn’t need Cas around to Jiminy Cricket him into having a conscience every second of the day?

But still…

“Yes,” Cas says stiffly, brows furrowed. “I can enter. But once I do, my powers will be severely limited.”

“Ah,” says Dean. “So basically, you’ll be at my current level. Almost human.”

Cas nods glumly. His mouth twists into a worried frown as he looks down at the handcuffs.

“I’ll understand if you- if you want to go in alone,” Cas says, though he is obviously extremely unhappy with the idea of letting Dean out of the cuffs, “I’d only be a liability—”

“Look,” Dean says sternly, “We’ve been through much worse odds and made it out alive. We defeated Dick Roman when I was human and you were halfway in cloud cuckoo land. I’m not going in there without you, Cas.”

Cas looks at him in disbelief, a small hesitant smile tugging at his lips. He looks so touched, like Dean’s words mean everything to him. It’s extremely embarrassing, but also extremely endearing.

“Besides,” Dean jokes as he raises the cuffs, making them rattle, “For better or for worse, right?” He grins crookedly at Castiel.

Cas gives him a grateful look, full of feeling, and Dean maybe melts a little inside.

Dean is aware that he is probably making a monumentally unwise decision; he’s pretty much deliberately handicapping himself. If he had any sense, he would try to wheedle his way out of the cuffs while Cas was still vulnerable to his persuasion, but unfortunately, Dean has never had a history of making wise decisions.

He has a sneaking suspicion he knows exactly why he’s bending over backwards so much just to please the angel -he’s practically doing the friggin’ Limbo- but he very deliberately does not think about it.

“Let’s go get ‘em, Louise,” Dean says to Cas with a wink and grin. “Time to sail off that cliff.”

Cas stares at him for a long moment and Dean thinks with dismay that Cas must have forgotten about that conversation, not that Dean can blame him- it was kind of long ago and he’s absolutely certain the angel had not caught the reference back then- but then Castiel grins back and says, “I’m with you all the way, Thelma. Do we need to hold hands?”

He wiggles his fingers at Dean, smiling mischievously.

“Shut up, smartass,” Dean says, but he is still grinning when he kicks in the door.

 

\---

 

There is a loud crash as the door flies open to reveal Dean and Castiel. Sam jerks up, anxiously searching his brother and the angel for any sign of injury. Dean is grinning and bloody, but it is clear that none of the blood is his. He has an angel blade clutched in his hand, most likely Castiel’s. Cas is standing solemnly behind him, and though there is a slight pained expression on his face, he looks resolute, ready for a fight.

Sam hears the slick sound of metal sliding against cloth as Robert draws his angel blade. The circle of demons guarding Sam tense as Dean and Castiel draw nearer, but they shift aside to allow Dean and Castiel to enter at some signal from Robert.

“Hello, Dean,” Robert says. Dean turns to look at the demon. He narrows his eyes, and a look of concentration comes onto his face. Then, shock floods his features and he almost takes a step back, before seeming to steady himself.

“ _Azazel_ ,” Dean breathes. His expression darkens.

Robert chuckles.

“Wrong,” he says with an amused grin. “I’m more of his… successor.”

“Mephistopheles,” says Cas in a low growl as he steps forward, eyes flashing with recognition. Robert smiles thinly and nods in acknowledgment. He seems awfully pleased to have been recognized.

Castiel and the demon exchange long, hard stares of stony enmity. Dean glances between them, bemused. “Mephisto-whaaat?” he says.

Offhandedly, he comments, “You know, that sounds like some kind of STD.” He pauses for a beat before saying brightly, “You got a sister out there called Syphilis?” Chuckling, he flashes the demon an incredibly obnoxious shit-eating grin.

Sam has never appreciated Dean’s ability to spout off annoying wisecracks in the middle of thoroughly inappropriate situations more. God bless Dean and his terrible sense of humor.

The demon gives Dean a pained glare. “Just call me Robert,” he snaps. Apparently, the name thing is kind of a touchy topic.

Eyebrows raised, Dean smirks.

“Well, screw you, Robert, or whatever you’re really called,” he says, “Now hand over my brother.”

Robert flashes him a pleasant smile. “Patience, Dean,” he drawls and from the murderous expression on Dean’s face, Sam can tell that an eruption is impending in about T-minus ten.

“I’m sorry, did that sound like a question to you?” Dean snaps. “Let me rephrase that.” He raises Castiel’s angel blade threateningly. “Hand over Sam or I gut you like a pig.”

“Hear me out, Dean,” Robert says silkily. He nods to Sarah and Sam grunts in pain as the dagger at his throat slices down into his skin, drawing a thin trickle of blood.

“You son of a bitch!” Dean starts to lunge forward, teeth bared in a ferocious snarl, but Castiel holds him back by one arm. “Dean,” the angel says firmly, and Dean seems to contain himself with a vast effort of will, though he is still shaking in rage, glaring at Robert like he wishes for nothing more in the world than to rip the other demon’s head off.

“What do you want with me?” Dean growls.

Robert smiles thinly. “All I want is for things to go back to the way they were.”

Dean watches warily as Robert circles Sam, coming to a stop at Sam’s side. He places one hand onto Sam’s shoulder and smiles as Dean glares at him in obvious fury.

“Do you remember how it felt? When everything was right. Clean, clear and pure. Nothing but the thrill of the kill-” Robert’s smile is dark and knowing. “-No morals, no qualms. Just freedom.”

Dean’s eyes narrow, and Sam can see the dawning realization on his face as he figures out what Robert wants him for.

“Don’t you ever miss it, Dean? All that power? To take what you want. To do what you want. To be invincible. All those people you tortured and killed- their sweet screams for mercy- don’t you remember how good it felt?”

Dean jerks, a strange, dark emotion crossing his face briefly. The haunted cast to his features makes Sam’s stomach twist. Surely- surely Dean can’t actually be listening to this shit?

Robert smiles, sly and insidious. “You could have the First Blade again. Don’t you want it back? I know you can feel it calling, even now. Just imagine it, Dean. You could have it all back. You could be free again. No more despair, no more guilt, no more being treated like an animal.” He leans down, leaning in to stage-whisper conspiratorially into Sam’s ear. “By a brother who trusts you even less than he trusted the demon who eventually stabbed him in the back.”

“Dean,” says Sam, stricken, “Don’t listen to him—”

Robert roughly backhands Sam across the face. Sam’s ears ring, and his head jerks backwards from the force of the blow. Wincing, he squints through the pain to see Dean glaring at Robert in fury. “Leave him alone!” Dean snarls.

Sam is heartened by that expression of concern, but Dean’s next words caused Sam’s spirits to take an immediate plunge. “It’s me you want,” Dean says, stepping forward, his gaze firmly fixed on Robert. His chin is raised defiantly. Behind Dean, face grave, Castiel watches in concern.

Smiling, Robert spreads his arms welcomingly. “Come back to us, Dean. You know it’s where you belong. Deep down, you’ve always known. Hell is where you’re truly meant to be.”

Dean’s expression is closed off but his eyes are troubled. Robert smiles, like a shark scenting blood in the water.

“Come, and let us free you of those chains. You can be free again, free of all those useless human emotions. What have they ever done for you, other than cause you needless suffering and pain?”

Dean shakes his head weakly, but Sam can see the doubt on his features, the poisonous hooks of Robert’s words sinking into him like claws into his flesh.

“Join me and I’ll let Sam go,” Robert says pleasantly. “Everyone gets what they want. We all leave here happy. No harm, no foul.”

Dean looks at Robert, eyes dark with doubt, and Sam’s heart races. Is Dean actually considering accepting? He can’t actually be tempted, can he?

“Damn it, Dean, don’t-” Sam finds his voice cut off with a negligent wave of Robert’s hand. Dean steps forward protectively, but he stops at Robert’s next words.

Robert’s tone is silky as he says softly, “You try so hard to be a hero, but everything you do only makes it worse. Tell me, Dean, how many people have you actually saved? Do you think it’s ever going to make up for everything else you’ve done? Can it ever compare to the number of people you’ve hurt?” Robert shakes his head in mock sadness. “Deep inside, you know… No matter how many people you save, you can’t change that. You can never fill that hole inside of you. Not ever.”

Breathing heavily, Dean sways, like Robert’s words had the force of physical blows. The naked pain on his features makes Sam’s stomach roil, and he aches for Dean. He feels so useless, unable to do anything as the demon mercilessly taunts his brother, using all of Dean’s most deeply held fears against him.

“You’re poison, Dean. All you do is hurt the people you love. You try to do the right thing. To be a hero. But in reality?” Robert smiles, dark and cruel. “You’re anything but. That mark on your arm? All it did was give you a push. You’ve always been destined for Hell. And now, that’s all you ever will be- a _monster._ ”

A lump comes into Sam’s throat. He wants to reach out, to reassure Dean that it’s not true, to wipe away the hopeless despair he sees on Dean’s face, the obvious misery that Sam now realizes- with a horrible pang of guilt- that Dean has been hiding, keeping buried deep beneath the surface, but which has now come surging to the fore, Dean’s defenses crumbling in the face of Robert’s cruel words. The anguished look in Dean’s eyes—it’s painful to watch. Dean is _suffering_ , and Sam is stuck here, unable to move or even speak. Tears of frustration threaten to well up in his eyes.

“You’re wrong,” comes the gravelly pronouncement. Startled, Sam turns to look mutely at Castiel. In his worry about Dean, Sam had almost forgotten the angel was there.

Castiel steps forward, laying a hand on Dean’s arm. His stance is firm, fiercely protective.

“Dean is a good man,” Cas says fiercely, eyes blazing. In every word, Sam can hear pure, steely conviction. “And no matter how much you try to twist him into the monster you want him to be, he will never be. I would stake my life on it.”

Dean seems to shake himself, Castiel’s words jerking him out from whatever internal morass of misery he had sunk into. “Cas…” he says, voice hoarse, looking up to meet Castiel’s gaze.

Castiel nods at him, holding his gaze, and whatever it is Dean sees in Castiel’s eyes must give him strength because he straightens up resolutely, a determined twist to his lips.

His face hardens as he turns to face Robert. “I won’t join you,” he spits at Robert coldly. “Not now. Not ever.”

Robert heaves an exaggerated sigh of disappointment. “It seems like we’ll have to do this the hard way.”

In one quick motion, he slits his wrist and the all too familiar scent of demon blood fills the air. Robert yanks Sam’s head back by his hair, and Sam lets out a grunt of pain. Though he was fully expecting it, Sam still feels a shudder of fear as Robert places his dripping hand above Sam’s mouth.

Sam squeezes his eyes shut and clamps his lips firmly together, but he can feel it as the blood drips down onto his face, warm drops of wetness that trickle down his cheeks, dribbling over his lips and down his chin.

“I wonder how many drops of my blood it’ll take to turn Sam into a demon,” Robert says musingly, “He was already halfway there when he killed Lilith. And after all the blood he drank before letting Lucifer in?” He laughs. "It probably won’t take too much.”

Sam hears Dean’s gasp of shock. He opens his eyes to see the stricken expression on Dean’s face. Dean looks as though he’s torn between fury and fear. There is a terrible indecision in his eyes.

“So, Dean, will you join me, or will you let me have your brother instead?” Robert laughs lazily. “I don’t really care which Winchester I get. Of course I’d prefer the complete set… but one mustn’t be too greedy.”

Sam realizes that he has gotten his voice back. “Dean, don’t do it,” he says urgently, voice pleading, “It’s not worth it- _please_ …”

“Sammy,” Dean says quietly. He looks utterly devastated. His gaze lingers on Robert’s dripping arm, and then his eyes move to meet Sam’s.

 _No_ , Sam thinks, _don’t do this. Please, God, don’t let him do it._

“Alright,” Dean tells Robert, “I’ll go with you. Just let Sam go.”

Sam slumps in defeat. It feels like a vise is constricting around his heart, a tight, awful pain in his chest. Despair floods him. Deep down, he had always known that Dean would choose Sam over himself.

 _After all_ , Sam thinks bitterly, _when has he ever chosen otherwise?_

“Dean, no,” Castiel says quietly, but Dean ignores him.

He steps forward, face hard. It is clear that he has made his decision.

Robert releases Sam, smiling delightedly at Dean. “Wise choice, Dean,” Robert says in an amiably congratulatory tone. “I’m glad we could come to an agreement.”

He offers a hand for Dean to shake. Dean just stares at it like it’s a poisonous snake, but Robert’s hand remains outstretched and he looks at Dean pointedly.

Grimacing, Dean grips Robert’s hand with distaste. Despite how he tries to hide it, Sam can see how he is obviously forcing down his revulsion and fighting his reluctance every step of the way. It breaks Sam’s heart to see it.

“Okay, let Sam and Cas go, and I’ll go with you quietly,” he says, voice rough. He jerks his head down at the cuffs attaching him to Castiel. “Get them off. You said you’d free me from my chains? You can start with these.”

Robert raises an eyebrow.

“Not so fast, Dean,” he drawls. “I never said anything about the angel.”

Sam has a very bad feeling about this. His eyes dart to Castiel, who is watching everything quietly, his face solemn.

Dean stares at Robert in shock, mouth dropping open in betrayed rage. “What the hell?” Taking a deep breath, he says, voice hard, “Cas doesn’t have anything to do with any of this. You let him go, or—”

“Or what?” Robert smiles thinly. He looks at Castiel, and his smile turns dangerous.

“Did you really think I’d just let you out of the handcuffs without some proof of your goodwill?” Robert laughs humorlessly and gives Dean a slyly knowing look. “No, you’ll turn on me, just like you turned on Crowley, the moment those cuffs are off. I need something more than just your word, Dean. If you want to work with me and save your brother, I’m going to need some proof of your loyalty.”

Dean glares at him, furious. “What the hell do you want?” he spits, “A kiss to seal the deal?”

“No,” Robert says. From the assessing way the demon was looking at Castiel, Sam thinks he already has an inkling of what Robert going to say next.

Robert smiles, slow and sinister. “I want you to kill the angel.”

 _No_. Sam looks worriedly at Dean. Dean’s face is white, his eyes wide. Though he is obviously struggling to keep a straight face, the absolute horror and disgust he feels at the idea of killing Cas is nonetheless plain on his features.

Behind him, Castiel just watches Dean, face serious and infinitely serene. He does not make any move to get out of the way, or try to defend himself. He just watches Dean quietly, waiting for Dean to make his decision. There is nothing but trust and calm acceptance in his every feature.

Sam realizes with a sinking feeling that Cas will do nothing to fight back, even if Dean tries to kill him. He doesn’t know if that makes it better or worse.

“I’ll make this simple for you,” Robert says, “Your brother… or the angel.”

His gaze lingers meaningfully on the bloodied angel blade gripped tightly in Dean’s white-knuckled hand and he smiles, slow and sinister.

“Make your choice.”

Dean remains stock-still. It seems that he has frozen in indecision. His eyes dart between Sam and Castiel. It is an impossible choice. And this time, unlike with Anna, there’s no taking a third option. There’s no ace up their sleeve, no secret plan. It’s just come down to this- Dean’s little brother versus Dean’s angel. Either way Dean chooses, he’s going to get it wrong.

“Dean,” Castiel says softly. He places a hand on Dean’s forearm, the cuffed hand holding the angel blade. “It’s okay.”

Dean looks at him, eyes heavy with emotion, and they stare at each other for a long while, something undecipherable passing between them in that lingering gaze, before Dean lifts the bloodied blade to Castiel’s throat.

Castiel gaze stays unwaveringly upon Dean’s face as Dean roughly grabs him by the shoulder, holding him in place. Sam watches in horror as Dean draws his other arm back in preparation to strike.

Robert smiles approvingly. “Finish it.”

“Do it,” Castiel says in echo, and the blade swings down.

Sam almost flinches away, unable to bear the sight of Dean killing Castiel, but there is no scream of agony, no searing flare of grace. Instead, by some invisible signal that passes between the two of them, the blade whistles through empty air as Castiel dodges out of the way and Dean swings around to stab at Robert instead.

But Robert seems to have entirely anticipated it. He catches Dean’s blow in one hand with almost lazy effort, and Sam watches in horror as Robert, smiling cruelly, turns the blade around towards Dean.

With effortless strength, Robert bends the blade closer and closer towards Dean’s chest, and as the blade inches down, Robert hisses in an angry whisper, “Did you really think that would work? You pathetic weakling. Clinging to the scraps of your humanity like some sad, blubbering sack of emotions? You make me _sick_.”

Dean is shaking with the strain of fighting to keep the sharp point of the blade away from himself, but he glares at Robert defiantly, baring his teeth in a snarl.

Robert sneers scornfully at Dean. “Do you know why you’re losing, Dean? Why you’re so weak? It’s because you allow yourself to be a slave to your feelings, to your foolish human attachments. The Mark remade you into something new and glorious, gave you a new lease of life, but what do you do? You throw it all away to play house with your brother and this angel.” Robert scoffs. “You unappreciative fool.”

With a savage snarl, Robert pushes the blade down, and Dean just barely manages to divert the course of the blow. Instead of stabbing into Dean’s heart, the angel blade sinks into Dean’s lower abdomen with a flash of red light as Dean grunts in pain.

Robert grins, darkly triumphant, but Castiel’s right hook catches him in the cheek, causing him to lose his grasp on Dean’s arm as he reels from the blow. Dean staggers away, cursing, and Castiel hastily grabs him by the shoulders to steady him.

The angel blade is slick with Dean’s blood.

“Cas, no,” Dean grits out between harsh pants of agony. “Sam- you gotta take care of Sam-”

Picking himself up from the floor, Robert draws his own angel blade. “You could have been strong, Dean. You could have been invincible. But you let yourself be shackled to this worthless filth.” He spits out a mouthful of blood and wipes away the bloodstain from the side of his mouth as he glares furiously at Dean and Castiel. “It will be your undoing.”

Robert makes a signal and the demons surrounding them charge forward towards Cas and Dean. Heart racing, Sam watches as Cas attempts to keep the demons off the two of them, leaving Dean to deal with Robert.

Robert attacks viciously, and Dean is forced on the defensive, unable to make any attacks of his own. He just tries his best to dodge and deflect Robert’s blows as they come. He isn’t always successful, and soon he is bleeding from half a dozen other wounds. If he were still human, he’d have long since been dead.

Robert lunges at Dean, and by some stroke of luck, Dean manages to disarm him. He deflects the oncoming blow with his own weapon, and sends Robert’s blade flying.

But even that small victory isn’t enough. Dean’s weakening, Sam can tell, the blood loss is getting to him. He’s getting careless, making more and more mistakes. It is plainly obvious that with the cuffs on, he’s no match for Robert. The fight is so terribly one-sided that Sam realizes- the only reason why Dean and Castiel aren’t dead yet is because Robert is toying with them. He wants to teach Dean a lesson.

Dean takes a swipe at Robert in a desperate attack, but it’s reckless and he overextends himself. Robert catches his hand easily before the blow can land and Sam looks on, a helpless observer, as Robert bends Dean’s wrist backwards, until finally, Dean lets out a cry of pain and the thin silver blade goes tumbling from his fingers.

Cas tries to turn to help, but his momentary distraction allows one of the demons to get the better of him. He is grabbed in a chokehold by the demon, and brought to his knees, an angel blade held at his throat.

Chuckling, Robert releases Dean from his grip. The demon must know that Dean won’t dare to try anything, not with the blade at Castiel’s throat, and he is absolutely right. Glaring furiously at Robert, Dean sways weakly on the spot, clutching at his still bleeding stomach. He makes no move towards the angel blade lying on the floor between them.

“You really should have taken that offer when I was feeling generous,” Robert informs Dean pleasantly. He bends down to pick up Castiel’s angel blade.

“Now? I’m going to make you watch as I kill your angel. Then, I am going to feed my blood to your brother. And after all that? We’ll do a little experiment. How long do you think you can hold off from murdering an innocent after I lock the two of you into a room with the First Blade? Maybe I should find one of your little friends. What was the name of that sheriff you’re so chummy with? Jody? Jody Mills?”

Dean glares at him furiously. “When I get my hands on the First Blade, the first thing I’m gonna kill? It’s _you_.”

Robert laughs. “All you Winchester men. All that wrath. All that lust for vengeance. That _pride_.” He smiles thinly at Dean. “You were all meant for the Pit. It’s in your blood- in your very bones. Hell’s calling… and you always come running.”

He grabs Dean’s chin in one hand and leans in close to whisper to Dean conspiratorially, “At the end of the day, Dean, the only difference between you and me is that unlike you, I don’t lie to myself about what I really am.”

“Fuck you,” Dean says defiantly. Robert stabs him in the gut in reply, twisting the angel blade in viciously as orange-red light flares around the edges of the wound and Dean screams in agony.

Finally, he pulls out the blade out and Dean staggers, falling to his hands and knees beside the already kneeling Castiel. Robert watches Dean cough blood with cold satisfaction.

But when Dean straightens up, he is smiling through bloodied lips. “You know what? You’re right.”

Robert turns to look at him in surprise.

“There is one difference between us… but it’s not what you think.”

Robert smiles humorlessly. “Really? Do tell.”

Dean grins weakly. “Unlike you, I actually have friends.” Slowly, he uncurls his fingers to reveal a silver cross necklace resting on the palm of his hand.

As Sam watches, eyes widening in surprise, Terrence Ellison’s ghost appears in a flicker and grabs Robert from behind.

The startled demon flails in shock, and Dean takes the opportunity to wrest the bloodied blade from his hand.

As Ellison holds the struggling demon still, Dean swiftly runs Robert through with Castiel’s angel blade. With a violent explosion of light, the demon collapses, slumping to the ground as Dean yanks the blade free with a vicious jerk.

It’s over. He’s dead.

\---

 

Dean lets out a breath of deep satisfaction, staring down at Robert’s empty meatsuit. _Finally_ , he thinks.

There’s a beautiful symmetry in knowing that Dean’s put down yet another yellow-eyed son of a bitch with the help of a friendly ghost. It’s enough to put a tear in anyone’s eye. He only wishes that he could have done something more to Robert before he died- a swift death was too good for that son of a bitch…

“It’s not over yet,” comes Ellison’s gruff warning, startling Dean out of his dark reverie.

He’s right. All around them, Robert’s minions are gathering. More and more demons are streaming in from the door, most likely having followed Ellison here.

This is… unfortunate.

Dean eyes the opposition with unease. He’s in bad shape, to put it lightly, and probably the only thing he’s qualified to fight at the moment is a paper doll. If he went up against a punching bag right now, the punching bag would win.

Dean had half-hoped that Robert’s minions would scatter in the wake of their boss’s death, but apparently these are the kind of demons that actually have some sense of personal loyalty, and not just the mercenary ‘looking out for number one’ attitude that characterizes most of the demons Dean meets nowadays. Exhibit A: Crowley.

Right now, they’re just... watching.

And why not? After all, the demons know they have them cornered.

Dean glares balefully at the gathered horde, giving the assembled demons a derisive sneer, but he feels his heart sinking.

Sometime when Dean had been busy stabbing Robert, Castiel had also freed himself of his guards. He’s armed himself with an angel blade, most likely wrested from his captors. Noticing Dean’s gaze upon him, Cas says, “Dean, are you alright?”

He looks so worried, like he thinks Dean might drop dead any moment. Come on, it’s not _that_ bad. Cas should worry more about himself. The angel looks haggard, almost as bad as the time when he had been near death from the stolen grace burning inside of him.

“I’m fine,” Dean mutters, “Let’s go get Sam.”

Dean limps over to Sam, Castiel trying gallantly to support his weight. They slice through the cables tying Sam to the chair, and Sam struggles to his feet with a pained grunt. Sam’s in much better condition than the rest of them, but he’s also not exactly what you’d call ‘fighting fit’.

The demons have spread out to the edges of the room, circling, like wolves watching the herd of sheep gathered in the center. Looking around, Dean realizes with a sinking feeling in his chest-- there are too many demons for them to deal with head-on, even with four of them.

There are a few humans amongst them, all of them soulless and dead-eyed, including the little blonde girl that held the dagger to Sam’s throat earlier. Ellison is watching her carefully, a stricken expression on his face. She must be Ellison’s daughter, Dean realizes with a start.

“Dean,” Sam says urgently, “We have to get out of here. There’re too many of them.”

Dean looks back at him incredulously. “We can’t just- leave! What about the humans?” he demands.

“Exactly,” Ellison growls, “That’s my daughter back there. I’ll be damned if I leave this place without her.”

Sam looks pleadingly at Dean. “We can’t fight them, Dean. I mean- look at you, you’re nearly _dead_ —”

Well, thanks a lot, Sammy. Dean knows he’s not doing terribly well, but at least he’s upright and mobile at the moment, isn’t he? So what if he feels like he’s about to topple over any second and the pain is so blinding he can barely move?

Dean glares weakly at Sam. Ignoring Sam’s protests, he hands his brother Castiel’s angel blade. “Just keep them off me, okay?”

Without waiting for Sam’s reply, Dean takes a deep breath. This is probably gonna hurt. A lot.

“ _Exorcizamus te, Omnis Immundus Spiritus-”_ he begins.

A nasty twisting feeling is building inside him, like the beginnings of a bad tummy ache.

Dean knows in a detached, clinically logical kind of way that Knights of Hell cannot be exorcised, and the handcuffs would keep him from smoking out of his meatsuit in any case, but something tells him this is nevertheless not going to be a terribly pleasant experience.

This is likely one of the stupidest things Dean has ever done in his long and impressive history of doing stupid things.

As the demons realize what Dean is trying to do, they snarl, almost as one, and surge forward. Dimly, through a haze of pain, Dean sees Cas and Ellison leaping into action to defend him as the demons rush at him, Cas taking Dean’s right and Ellison taking the left.

Sam is shaking him, none too gently. “Dean, what- what the heck? What are you-” Dean tunes out Sam’s furious protests as he continues on with the exorcism, ignoring the growing pain.

As expected, Sam is not at all on board with Dean’s plan. Yeah, Sammy’s probably gonna be real pissed after this, but hell, at least there will be an ‘after this’.

“ _Omnis Satanica Potestas…_ ”

The pain is spreading throughout him, like a burning fire that’s lighting up his every nerve. Dean wants to scream with the agony of it, but he forces himself to continue on, gritting out the words like he’s fighting to speak through a mouthful of treacle.

_“Omnis Incursio Infernalis Adversarii …”_

Dean’s panting now, harsh, short struggles for breath, and the words are coming slower and slower. His vision is pulsing, black spots crowding in at the edges. A demon manages to make it past Castiel and Ellison, and it makes a grab for Dean. Dean flinches back, too weak to dodge away, but Sam comes to his defence, stabbing the demon with Castiel’s angel blade before it can lay a hand on Dean.

Dean gives his brother a brief grateful nod before continuing, “ _Omnis Congregatio et Secta Diabolica, Ergo Draco Maledicte…”_

The demons are howling in pain, some of them dropping to their knees or lying prone on the ground in foetal positions. Dean can see them, inside their meatsuits, the black smoky forms of their twisted souls pulsating with flashes of crackling red light, curling upon themselves as they writhe in agony. He catches a glimpse of Ellison gently knocking the blonde girl out, before tenderly placing her on the floor, whereupon he stands guard over her slumped form.

“ _Ut Ecclesiam Tuam Secura, Tibi Facias-”_

Every word is like a dagger to the gut, like thousands of tiny knives stabbing into his flesh. He feels like he’s boiling all over, his skin melting off his bones. It feels like being back on the rack, only a thousand times worse.

Dimly, through the blackness clouding his vision, he sees Castiel peering worriedly down at him. It registers upon him with faint surprise that he had somehow fallen to the floor sometime during the exorcism, and he’s now on his hands and knees. He’s shaking violently all over.

“Dean, stop it,” the angel is saying urgently, “It’s enough. Please… stop it.”

But Dean can’t stop it. He has to see this through to the end. If there’s one good thing he can do, it’s this.

 _“Libertate Servire, Te Rogamus,”_ he grits out, and it is barely above a whisper.

The pain is blinding, threatening to take over his entire world. His throat feels raw, like it’s been scraped out with steel daggers, and his tongue is leaden- it can barely move. His every nerve ending is on fire. It feels like he’s dying, but dying has never been this painful. Vaguely, he finds himself wondering if a demon can actually die from an exorcism.

Nevertheless, Dean digs deep inside, and somehow, he finds the strength within himself to yell out the final words.

“ _Audi Nos,_ bitches!” he cries, and from somewhere far away, Dean can hear demons screaming in thwarted fury, and there is a great rumble accompanied by a thunderous roar as all of them are expelled from their vessels. Above all of that is the sound of Sam and Castiel shouting at Dean, twin voices of desperation and worried anger.

Dean feels devastatingly sorry for a moment, that they should have to suffer for his stupidity—

Then, there is only blackness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you hated me for last week, you probably hate me even more now. Oops? xD I will try my very best to get out the next chapter ASAP, scout's honour.
> 
> (disclaimer: I have never actually been a scout)


	15. You're a good man, Dean Winchester

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dean gets some extremely unwanted life advice from an old ‘friend’, is forced to undergo more chick flick moments than he is strictly comfortable with, and learns an important truth— he may be a demon, but that doesn’t mean that he can’t also be a good person.

The first thought that comes to Dean’s mind when the darkness clears is: _Great. Am I dead again?_

That really happens far too often for his liking.

He’d thought it would hurt a lot more. But as he cracks open a wary eye, he realizes that as far as he can tell, he is in no pain whatsoever.

Wherever he is, it can’t be Hell because a) he’s already a demon so he can’t friggin’ die and go to Hell again and b) there’s way too less screaming.

Well, more to the point, there is no screaming.

In fact, there isn’t anything at all.

Dean looks around curiously. There’s nothing but blank whiteness, stretching as far as the eye can see. As far as Dean can tell, he’s alone here. There’s just him and the empty, endless whiteness. Like he’s been dumped in the matrix or something, and someone forgot to put in all the code.

“Hello, handsome,” comes an all too familiar sardonic drawl.

Startled, Dean spins on his heel, arms raised defensively. When his gaze falls on the voice’s owner, his eyes widen, and he takes an involuntary step backwards.

“You,” he says accusingly, “You’re _dead_.”

Meg laughs happily, beaming at Dean. She looks exactly like she did when he last saw her. Smug smile, check. Black leather jacket, check. Insufferable attitude. Definite check.

With a sly wink and a careless smirk, Meg drawls, “Well, who’s to say you aren’t too?”

Dean lets out an exaggeratedly tortured groan. “ _Oh goody_ ,” he says sarcastically. “Is this where demons go when they die?” He looks around, pretending to inspect his surroundings, before finally turning back to glare daggers at Meg. “This sucks. Even Purgatory was better.” He narrows his eyes. “At least it didn’t have you.”

Meg raises an eyebrow and comments dryly, “Charming as ever, I see.”

Dean gives her a look of pointed scorn and folds his arms.

Sneering, he says acidly, “Don’t you have some other dead demons to torment?”

Meg laughs, smiling brightly at Dean as he glares at her irritably. “Funny how things work out, eh? You and me on the same side.” She gives Dean a sly wink and nudges him in the arm with her elbow. Dean glares pointedly at her elbow and very deliberately moves away.

Meg just smiles at him sunnily. “If I’d still been alive, things could have been so swell. We could have been demonic BFFs. Killed some people, raised some Hell together. Old Alastair would have been so proud. Both his star pupils, working together. Ah, damn, now I’m gonna cry.”

“Shut the fuck up, Meg,” Dean growls.

Meg’s laughter is high and tinkling, bell-like. She waves a hand carelessly at Dean, smiling sweetly.

“I’m just joking. Lighten up a little, Dean-o. That much rage can’t be good for you. Dead men shouldn’t be so angry.” She lowers her voice and winks conspiratorially, like she’s imparting some great secret. “From one corpse to another, let me tell you-- unlife’s a lot easier when you learn to take things less seriously.”

Dean glares at her coldly.

Chuckling, Meg says, “Anyway, you gotta admit- it’s really kind of funny. You ending up a demon. That’s like a new record. First demon with an anti-possession tattoo.” She laughs. “Talk about self-loathing, huh.” She smiles fondly at Dean. “You’re a real basket case aren’t you, Dean Winchester?”

“Ha ha ha,” Dean says, glaring, “I got rid of that thing a long time ago.”

Meg smiles slyly. “But you still hate yourself. Don’t bother denying it, Dean. I know everything that’s rattling round in this big empty noggin of yours.” She twirls a finger through a curl of hair and smiles at Dean slyly. “Think of me as, say… an anthropomorphic personification of all those little secret desires and feelings you insist on bottling up like the emotionally repressed man-child that you are. So do us a favour and stop lying to yourself, eh?”

Dean glares witheringly at her.

“For a supposed figment of my imagination, you sure talk a lot. If I wish hard enough and say ‘pretty, pretty, please’, do you think you’ll explode into gory little meat chunks?”

Meg smiles pleasantly at him.

“Y’know, Dean, being a demon’s not so bad, really.”

Dean shoots her a pained glare. “Oh yeah? You mean, other than the fact that we’re twisted spirits of pure evil? And our souls look like ass? Every time I look in a mirror, I wanna _puke_. And you-” Face scrunching up in revulsion, he waves a hand at Meg. “You’re _fugly_. You look like something that got chewed up and spat out again.”

Meg gives him a dry look. “Wow, you sure know how to make a girl feel special.”

Dean ignores her. “And don’t even get me started on the stupid weaknesses. I get splashed with some holy water and I start looking like twoface. I can’t even cross some friggin’ lines if they’re drawn in a special configuration. Oh, and joining the black-eyed club has been such a boost for my popularity. Everyone hates my ass and thinks I’m some psycho mass-murdering freak just ‘cause I’m a demon.”

Meg arches an eyebrow at him. “Aren’t you?”

Dean yelps indignantly, “No!”

Meg waves a careless hand at him. “Then, I really don’t see why you’re so worked up.” Inspecting her fingernails, she says casually, “Who cares what the world thinks? It’s not who you are underneath, but what you do that defines you.”

Dean stares at her in incredulous anger. “Are you seriously quoting Batman at me?”

Smirking jauntily, Meg says, “Up yours, twoface. Maybe you’d rather die a hero, Dean, but too bad, you’ve lived to see yourself become the villain. All you can do now is make a choice about what you’re gonna do about it.”

She gives him a knowing look. “Yeah, you’ve done some shitty things, bathed in the blood of innocents, torn out a few hearts - which for the record, I think is a greatly enjoyable and perfectly healthy hobby- but so what?”

She continues as Dean glares at her in disgust, “You gonna spend the rest of eternity beating yourself up about it? You wanna keep wallowing in guilt and throwing yourself a big pity party, or you wanna go out there and actually start making some amends? Save some people? Do some good? Y’know.” She rolls her eyes, and sarcastically forms her fingers into air-quotes. “‘The family business’.”

She gives Dean a knowing look, her expression softening. “What you did back there, with that exorcism? That was self-sacrifice, Dean. You wanted to save those humans, and you were willing to give your life to do so. If that’s not some seriously noble hero stuff you’re pulling, I don’t know what is.”

Dean looks away, a lump forming in his throat. “You think it’s so damn easy, do you?” he mutters bitterly.

Meg gives him an irritated look like she thinks Dean is being deliberately stupid.

“Isn’t it? So you’re telling me, just because you’re a demon- that automatically disqualifies you from being good? Newsflash, Dean Winchester. Demons can protect people too. Demons can love. Cain loved. He loved so deeply that he exiled himself- went against all of his basest instincts and desires- all to keep a promise to the memory of a long-dead woman.”

Dean glares at Meg mutely, his lips thin.

Snidely, Meg says, “Let me ask you a question, Dean. Why do you think I sacrificed myself to delay Crowley? Well, it certainly wasn’t for you or your brother. You think I actually give a fig about you two douchebags?”

Dean gives her a death glare. “What do you think this is?” he snaps, “Some sappy Hollywood romance where I find redemption through the power of love? The warm tenderness of true love’s embrace breathing life back into my black dead heart and leading me back onto the path of light?” He huffs angrily. “Give me a friggin’ _break_.”

Meg rolls her eyes. “How’s the stay in the closet going?” she says bitingly, “You found Narnia yet?”

As Dean glares at her murderously, she continues on blithely, tone dry, “We’re more alike than you think, Dean Winchester- and I don’t just mean that we’re both experts at flaying people’s flesh from their bones as they scream for mercy.” She smiles wryly. “You think Castiel is your unicorn, your unattainable dream? Well, so did I. But you’re wrong.”

Dean raises one skeptical eyebrow. “Really,” he says sarcastically. Is this where his life is at now? Being given relationship advice by Castiel’s dead demonic ex? Oh, joy.

Meg looks him straight in the eye as she says, “Unlike little old dead me, you actually still have a chance.”

As Dean glares at her, furious, she says, “Guess what, Dean? Demons want to be happy too. Maybe you think you don’t deserve happiness, but that’s just stupid. And really kind of pathetic.” Shaking her head slowly, she gives Dean an extremely patronizing pitying look.

“I’m dead now, so I’m feeling pretty generous. I’ll give you some free advice, Dean, one demonic love rival to another… Stop lying to yourself. If you let yourself, you could be happy. Maybe make my unicorn happy too—”

Dean stares at her in shock. Is Meg saying what Dean thinks she is? Seriously?

Indignantly, he snaps, “If this is you giving me your permission to go after Cas, then a) _fuck you_ , because Cas is his own man- okay, angel that’s currently wearing a man-- and he can damn well take care of himself, and b) _fuck you again_ , because I ain’t intereste—”

Meg gives Dean a look of deep scorn and says, “Oh, do shut up, Dean, and let me finish. Of course Clarence can make his own decisions. It’s not like he’s some kind of fragile little porcelain angel I can just pass on to you for safekeeping. His heart isn’t mine to give away. You know, I hate it when they do that in films- pawning love interests off like they’re some kind of shiny bauble without feelings or desires of their own. Like hellooo, that is just all kinds of demeaning—”

Gritting his teeth, Dean bites out, “Is there a point to your little speech?”

Meg gives him a thin-lipped look of displeasure. “The point, Dean, is that you are a big, blind fool. Clarence doesn’t need me to give him away, ‘cause he’s already gone and done that himself. I love my unicorn, I really do, but I’m not stupid, unlike you.” She sighs, and her tone is surprisingly wistful as she says, “I know which way the wind’s blowing, and sad as it is, it’s never truly been in my direction.”

Dean is startled to find that he actually feels kind of sorry for her. He had never thought there’d be the day when he and Meg shared anything in common other their intense mutual loathing for each other, but here they are.

Funny how the universe works.

Meg looks straight at him, gaze firm, as she says, “When it comes down to it, it’s always been you, Dean Winchester, god knows why. Castiel’s made his choice, he’s made it so many times, and you’ll be lying to yourself if you say that you don’t see it.”

Dean gapes at her in shock, speechless.

Meg gives him a firm look. “So quit whining like a little bitch and take good care of my unicorn, Dean Winchester. You damn well better. If not, I’ll come back from the dead and end you, Knight of Hell or not. That’s a promise.”

Dean stares at her, feeling like he is in a daze. Wonderingly, he says, “Why am I listening to this shit? You’re not even real. I’m not really in some weird demon afterlife, am I? This is probably all just some stupid hallucination.”

Meg rolls her eyes and says dryly, “That doesn’t mean it can’t make sense, you idiot.”

With a jaunty smirk and a wave, she snaps her fingers and the world bursts into pure white light.

“Give Clarence my love.”

 

\---

 

Dean jerks up with a gasp to find Castiel looking down at him worriedly, two fingers still on his forehead. Dean aches faintly all over, like his body is one giant bruise. The floor is cold, solid and most importantly _real_ , under his aching back.

Did he really just hallucinate all that? Dean sits up and rubs at his forehead, deeply disturbed. He must be going crazier than he thought if his subconscious mind just conjured up a vision of Castiel’s dead ex- though maybe ‘ex’ is putting it a little strongly, what those two had was more like some strange on-off awkwardly sexual thing- telling him that she gave him her blessing to hook up with her precious unicorn.

That was some bad trip. Dean had no idea exorcism-induced hallucinations/near-death experiences could be so…intense. And _weird_. Freud would probably have a field day.

Anyway, as far as wish fulfilment fantasies go, Dean has to say this one’s pretty shit. He doesn’t really know what to make of this little ‘gift’ from his subconscious. If this is his subconscious mind’s way of giving him a pep talk, it sure did so in a hell of a weird (and not to mention strangely abusive) manner.

Thanks for that, screwed up psyche.

Cas stares at Dean like he can’t really believe what he is seeing. Shakily, he says, “Dean. You’re alright. For a moment, I thought—”

He pulls Dean into a hug, causing Dean to utter an “oof” of surprise and stiffen. A brief moment passes before Dean realizes that he should probably hug back. He pats Cas on the back awkwardly, feeling faintly ridiculous. It doesn’t help that he just had some crazy weird hallucination in which Cas’s dead ex-girlfriend-thingy was trying to persuade Dean to tap that cherry angelic ass.

Dean’s subconscious has a lot to answer for.

“Alright, alright, it’s fine. Everything’s fine now. There, there, huggybear,” he says awkwardly.

Dean finds himself being grabbed into a hug by Sam as well.

“Ouch- ouch- watch it!” Dean yelps.

As Sam squeezes Dean tightly, like he’s afraid Dean will disappear if he ever lets go, he says, “Thank god. Thank god you’re alright. You stupid suicidal son of a bitch.”

He sounds as if he’s about to burst into tears any moment, the complete girl. What an uncomfortable group hug this is. Dean feels that his chick flick threshold is about to hit its maximum limit, not to mention Sam’s squeezing him so tight that he thinks his ribs might break.

Finally, Sam releases Dean. A moment later, Castiel very reluctantly detaches himself from Dean, looking as though the very act of physical separation is causing him grave pain.

Sam gives Dean a stern look and says in a firm, scolding tone, “Don’t you ever do that again, Dean. What were you thinking?” He gives Dean the classic Sam bitchface. “You’re a demon and you decide it’s a good idea to try an exorcism?”

Dean shrugs and gives Sam a sheepish grin. “Force of habit, I guess? Things were pretty hairy, y’know. I did the first thing that came to mind.”

Sam shakes his head in despair and looks at Dean with fond exasperation.

In a soft, wondering tone, he murmurs, “You idiot. You complete, utter idiot.”

“Amen to that,” comes the gruff comment, and Dean looks up in surprise to see Ellison. The dead hunter is standing nearby, hands on his hips. He says brusquely, “Your brother’s right. That was a damn fool move.”

Looking extremely uncomfortable, like he can’t believe he is actually saying this, he mutters grudgingly, “But I’m glad you’re alright.”

Dean raises an eyebrow, but refrains from comment. Instead, he says, “Thanks for the assist back there.”

Ellison snorts. “Couldn’t turn my back on a fellow hunter in need, could I?” he says in an offhanded, gruff manner, but the look in his eyes tells Dean that he knows exactly the significance of what he just said. Dean feels a lump come into his throat.

Smiling weakly, Dean swallows hard, but his voice is still fairly hoarse and tellingly nasal as he says, “How’s your daughter? She safe?”

Ellison nods. “Yeah, I found the rest of the soul jars after you conked out.”

“C’mere, Sarah.” He beckons to something behind him. Shyly, a small blonde head pokes out from behind Ellison to stare at Dean warily. Sensing Dean’s gaze on her, the girl ducks her head bashfully, and huddles behind Ellison’s ghostly form.

Ellison bends down and tells the girl, “Say thank you, sweetie. What did I tell you earlier?”

The girl looks down and shuffles around on the spot. “The nice shorter man in the jacket saved me,” she says dutifully as Sam sniggers and then very unsubtly tries to disguise it with a cough.

‘Nice shorter man’? Okay, Dean can roll with that. He’s been called worse before. At least it’s… technically accurate?

Ellison looks at Sarah patiently, waiting.

“And?” he prompts.

“I should say thank you,” the girl mumbles.

“Go on, sweetie,” Ellison coaxes, pushing Sarah towards Dean with an encouraging smile that makes his scarred, craggy face look entirely different.

“Thank you for saving me,” the girl says shyly as she comes up to Dean, and Dean thinks she’s going to run right back to her father, but instead Sarah grabs him around the middle. She’s a bit too short to hug Dean properly, her head is barely reaching his chest, but she does her best anyway.

Startled, Dean stares down at her, but then his face breaks into a grin and he bends down so she can hug him better. “You’re welcome,” he says, feeling faintly embarrassed as he hugs back.

Sarah gives him a bright grin, apparently having decided that Dean is no longer scary. “You’re nice,” she declares with cheerful sincerity, before wrinkling her nose. “Even if you smell a bit funny. Like the eggs in our cupboard when Daddy forgot about them for three months.”

She beams at him sunnily. In the background, Ellison looks utterly mortified. “Sarah!” he hisses.

As Sam bursts into raucous laughter, Dean smiles weakly back at Sarah. “Uh…thanks?”

He turns to give Sam a heated glare. “What’s. So. Funny. Sam.”

“Out of the mouths of babes,” Sam chortles. He and Cas share a grin as Dean fumes.

“Your face is nice. I like your eyes,” Sarah continues on blithely, with that earnest seriousness that young children have. “They’re very pretty. Like my favorite green crayon. I use it for grass and frogs and dinosaurs-”

“Okay, that’s enough out of you, young lady,” Ellison says hurriedly, and he tugs Sarah away from Dean. He makes her sit down on an overturned crate, where she stays, kicking her legs idly as she watches them with unabashed curiosity. Noticing Dean looking at her, her smile brightens and she gives him a happy little wave.

“Looks like you’ve got a new fan, Dean,” Sam says with a sly smirk. “She’s practically writing odes to your beauty. I can just imagine them now.” Grinning, Sam intones,” ‘His eyes, green as the most brightly colored Tyrannosaurus Rex dinosaur—”

Dean glares at him. “I’m glad you’re finding this so entertaining, Sam,” he says grumpily as Sam sniggers.

Ellison returns, still looking faintly embarrassed. “She’s a good kid,” he says roughly.

“Yeah, she is,” Dean agrees. He looks at Ellison worriedly, wondering how best to put it, but Sam gets there before him.

“You know you can’t stay, right?” Sam says gently, voicing Dean’s thoughts.

“No shit, Sherlock,” Ellison bites out acidly, folding his arms. He throws Sam a disgruntled glare. “I’m a hunter. I don’t need you to tell me that. I know what happens to ghosts who hang around too long in the veil.”

He looks at Sarah, gaze softening. “I just- I just need a bit more time.”

Sarah notices his gaze upon her, and she waves happily at him, smiling. A bright, brittle smile comes onto Ellison’s face as he waves back.

“Terrence…” Sam says hesitantly.

“Yes, yes, I know,” Ellison says irritably, “Heard you the first time. I’ll go, I just-” He turns to Dean and his gaze is pleading. “I need you to make me a promise.”

Startled, Dean says, “What is it?”

“Sarah’s got an aunt down in Kansas. Mom’s side of the family. She’s a good enough person. Just hated me ‘cause she thought I was an unemployed bum… and a serial killer,” he adds a moment later, tone dry. “She helped Andrea look after Sarah sometimes after I left. I want you to take Sarah to her. With Andrea dead, she’s pretty much the only family Sarah has now.”

Dean doesn’t know why Ellison’s asking him this, instead of Sam or Cas. Like, come on, the ghost was trying to kill him just a few hours ago. But for some reason, Ellison’s looking at Dean, and the pleading look in his eyes is disquieting. Dean has no idea why Ellison trusts him to do this. In his place, Dean would never have trusted a stranger to take care of Sam like that, much less a demon, even if said demon had just saved all their lives.

“I don’t- I don’t understand,” Dean says slowly, “Why me? I mean, I’m a-- I’m not exactly—”

Ellison doesn’t let him finish. “Because I know you care,” he says firmly. “I saw it in your eyes when you were talking about your brother. And when you were doing that exorcism. You were willing to give your life to save my daughter. I know you’ll do right by her.”

He meets Dean’s eyes, gaze solemn. “I misjudged you,” he admits, “You’re a good man, Dean Winchester. Like your angel said. Whatever that demon told you, he was wrong.” Looking firmly into Dean’s eyes, he says, “You _are_ a hero.” After a moment, he lets out a bark of dry laughter. “God, never thought there’d be the day I’d be saying that to a demon.”

Dean shakes his head, a strange, churning feeling in the pits of his stomach. “I- I’m not—” he protests.

Ellison gives him an annoyed glare. “Look. It doesn’t matter if you’re a demon, or the Antichrist, or the motherfucking Devil himself. You chose to be good. That’s all that matters in the end. You may be a demon, but that doesn’t mean you can’t be on the side of the angels.” He pauses for a beat, before clarifying, “The metaphorical, non-dickbag kind of course.”

He turns to Cas. “No offence to you, Cassiel, or whatever your name was.”

“None taken,” says Cas graciously. Then after a moment, seemingly unable to help himself, “It’s Castiel, actually.”

The dead hunter waves a hand at him irritably. “Same difference,” he says in a gruff mutter.

He turns back to Dean. “So will you do it or not?”

Dean looks at him, still too stunned for words, but he finally finds the voice to say, “Yeah- yeah, sure. I promise.”

Ellison nods at him approvingly, and his scarred lips twitch into a tiny smile. “Good,” he says, and after a beat, “Sorry about trying to kill you, by the way.”

Dean shrugs. “You saved my ass back there, so I figure that makes us even.”

Ellison grins, and Dean finds himself grinning back.

“Listen,” Ellison says abruptly, “Can we talk privately?”

Sam and Cas exchange puzzled looks, while Dean raises an eyebrow sardonically, and lifts his right hand up to shake it at Ellison, making the cuffs rattle. “Yeahhhh,” he drawls, “These might make that a little hard.”

Castiel looks faintly apologetic, like it’s somehow his fault for being attached to Dean by the handcuff chains. “I could disconnect myself from my vessel’s senses,” he offers helpfully. “Do not worry, I promise I will give the two of you full privacy.” He smiles at them earnestly.

Dean opens his mouth to tell Ellison that this is all ridiculous and whatever the ghost has to say, he can fairly well say it in front of the three of them, but Ellison speaks first. “Great,” he says, “You go do that. Give us five minutes, ‘kay?”

Castiel complies with a little nod, closing his eyes and freezing, going absolutely still. With one last quizzical glance towards Ellison and Dean, Sam also takes his leave.

Dean gives Ellison an annoyed look. “What’s this all about?” he demands.

Ellison waves a hand in front of Castiel. Then, getting no reaction, he pokes the angel in the chest, hard. When Castiel still does not respond, he gives Castiel’s nose a hard tweak.

“Hey!” Dean says, “Leave him alone!”

Seemingly satisfied that Castiel is totally out of it, Ellison turns back to face Dean.

“You wanna explain what this is about?” Dean says, the tone of his voice making it clear that he doesn’t mean it as a request.

“I want to give you some advice before I leave,” Ellison says, his gaze lingering pointedly upon Castiel, and Dean suddenly has a very bad feeling about where this is going. This is apparently his day for being given unwanted, unsolicited advice on his (non-existent) love life.

“Is this about Cas?” Dean asks irritably. “Look, pal. I don’t wanna have to explain this again, but seriously, there is nothing going on between—”

Ellison gives him an extremely grouchy look. “I’m dead,” he says, “Not _blind_.”

Without giving Dean a chance to reply, he continues, “I’ve seen the way you look at him. It’s like you want to fuck his brain out through his eyes.”

Dean splutters in outrage. “Shut up!” he says in panic. “ _Jesus Christ_.” His gaze darts to Castiel, who’s still standing there beside him, unmoving as a statue, and then to Sam, over at the other end of the room, talking to Sarah. He’s seized by the sudden irrational fear that they’ve somehow heard everything.

Ellison looks at him, clearly unimpressed. “You know, when I made that joke about the closet, I didn’t know it was really so bad.”

Dean shoots him a withering glare. “You don’t know anything about us, Ellison,” he says coldly.

Ellison scoffs, not ashamed in the least. “Yeah, yeah, it’s complicated, whatever. Maybe I don’t know jackshit about the two of you personally, but what I know is you gotta treasure what you have when you still got it.”

Dean glares at Ellison mutinously, but Ellison continues speaking, “Look at me. Case in point. I had a family. A wife and a kid. Five years ago, I left them. Went back to hunting. I told myself it was for their sake, that they’d be better off without me, without all the shit I was bringing into their lives. And after all the crap I’ve done? Maybe I didn’t deserve a normal, happy life anyway.”

This story sounds all too familiar. Dean swallows hard and looks away.

“But now I realize—that sort of stuff doesn’t matter at the end of the day. You just gotta take whatever chance of happiness you can get, however slim, before it slips away. I only wish I could have spent more time with Sarah and Andrea, before this damn fool crusade took me away from them.” Ellison’s smile is wistful, his eyes sad.

As he looks at Dean, he says, tone earnest, “Don’t make the same mistake as me. You’re no coward, Dean. I know you’re not. So make me one last promise.”

Dean opens his mouth to protest, he’s not making any damned promises, but Ellison speaks right over him. “Promise to think about what I said, okay? Give the angel a chance.”

Dean’s gaze involuntarily shifts to Castiel, standing stock-still beside him, eyes closed and features expressionless, as stony as if he were carved from marble. And yet Dean’s heart still twists, looking at Cas like this, and Dean squeezes his eyes shut, gritting his teeth.

But the damn ghost just won’t leave him alone. Dean is forced to open his eyes again to glare at Ellison when the dead hunter says insistently, “Can you make that promise?”

It’s obvious that Ellison isn’t going to drop this until Dean gives him the time of the day. He’s so goddamn stubborn, like a dog with a bone.

Scowling, Dean says, “Fine. I promise. Now will you stop trying to Oprah Winfrey me?”

The ghost huffs and folds his arms. “You’re such a stubborn bastard.”

Dean glares. Looks who’s talking.

At that moment, Castiel jerks back to life, eyes opening. It seems that their five minutes are over.

“Did you have a good discussion?” he asks pleasantly as he looks between the two of them.

Dean rolls his eyes. “Oh yes, so good. We talked about our feelings and all. I had a little cry and my heart grew three sizes.”

Cas gives Ellison a sympathetic look. “Dean doesn’t like to talk about his feelings,” he informs Ellison matter-of-factly. He flashes Ellison an apologetic smile. “But I’m sure he’s grateful, nevertheless.”

As Ellison snorts in laughter, Dean turns his glare upon Castiel. “Thanks, Cas,” he says, voice dripping with sarcasm.

“You’re welcome, Dean,” Castiel says seriously, and Dean fights the urge to facepalm. Sometimes, he wonders if the angel is being deliberately obtuse.

 

\---

 

They watch as Ellison quietly pulls his daughter into his arms one last time, whispering into her ear, words too low for even Dean’s supernaturally enhanced hearing to catch. Then, with slow, solemn movements, he loops the silver cross necklace around her neck. The cross glints against Sarah’s dress, bright and beautiful.

Dean watches as tears form in Sarah’s eyes. She may be young, but Dean of all people knows that loss is something that everyone understands, no matter their age. Beside him, Dean senses Sam shifting uncomfortably. His brother looks solemn, composed, but Dean knows Sam’s bleeding heart. They’re no strangers to death and loss, the two of them, but it never gets easier witnessing other people’s heartbreak.

The reaper who came at Castiel’s request, Seraphial, steps forward from where she had been watching by the side, respectful and silent.

“It’s time to go,” she says gently, placing a hand on Ellison’s shoulder.

Ellison looks down at his daughter. “It’s okay, Sarah. Just remember, I’m proud of you, okay? I always will be.”

He steps away from Sarah, and Seraphial takes his hand in hers. Their figures begin to glow with white light, the edges becoming fuzzy and indistinct. The white light builds to a blazing crescendo, and with a soft smile on his face, Terrence Ellison waves at Sarah one last time before he disappears.

 

\---

 

Dean sits down heavily on the couch, Castiel following suit much more demurely a moment later.

Dean swipes a hand across his brow. He feels utterly exhausted, both physically and emotionally winded from the events of the day. For what they initially thought was just going to be a simple ghost hunt, it’s been a real rollercoaster ride. Dean doesn’t really know what to make of all of it.

They’re back in the Bunker now, after having dropped Sarah off at her aunt’s. Sam’s gone off somewhere. To take a bath, to eat, to take care of all the various other human necessities that once were so commonplace to Dean, but which are now so unnecessary. So foreign. Beside him, Castiel shifts, seeming to sense Dean’s distress.

Cas opens his mouth, and Dean just knows he is about to ask whether Dean wants to talk about his feelings. He raises a hand to forestall Cas, saying, “Before you ask, no, I don’t wanna talk about my feelings.”

Cas pauses, looking unhappy at being interrupted. Then, his expression softens.

“Dean, I just want you to know that I meant what I said. I believe in you. You are a good man, and nothing will ever change that.”

“What is this?” Dean says irritably, “Affirmation Tuesday? Why does everyone feel the need to keep harping on about this?”

Castiel looks him deep in the eyes. “We will keep telling you that until you truly believe it, Dean,” he says. Castiel’s gaze is solemn, full of feeling. “I just want you to know…it’s an honor to be able to fight by your side, and I’ll stay… for however long as you’ll have me.”

There’s a strange feeling in Dean’s chest. He looks at Castiel, dazed, and Cas smiles. The angel reaches out gently and places his hand across the back of Dean’s. Dean feels heavy, his throat is clogging, and he can’t speak, can only stare at Castiel.

But Castiel must see the gratitude in his eyes, because the angel gives his hand a gentle squeeze.

It is then that Sam walks into the room. Dean hastily withdraws his hand from Castiel’s grasp, hoping that Sam hadn’t noticed. Luckily, it seems that he didn’t. Sam draws closer, and Dean can see that he hasn’t even changed out of his stained clothes, and there are still patches of dried blood on his skin. He hasn’t even bothered to clean himself up. What the hell’s he doing here?

Dean can’t help but feel slightly annoyed at Sam’s presence. “Weren’t you going to shower?” he asks, tone coming out curter than he intended.

Sam doesn’t answer. He just draws out a tiny wooden box from his jacket. On its cover is a carefully etched devil’s trap.

Dean abruptly realizes what Sam’s here for.

Sam’s stance is apologetic as he opens the box and takes out the tiny silver key. Dean’s gaze fixes on the key. He feels kind of stunned.

“I’m sorry, Dean,” Sam says awkwardly, “I- I didn’t realize how badly I was treating you. Okay, actually, I kind of did. But I was so mad. At myself, at you, at the whole goddamn universe- for being so unfair. For putting us into this situation.” Quietly, he admits, “I screwed up.”

He looks so sad, so ashamed that Dean aches, just looking at him. “I didn’t trust you, when I should have. I pushed you away. I didn’t see how unhappy you were. Or if I did, I was willfully blind to it. That demon was right. I treated you like a prisoner. Like an animal.”

Dean swallows hard. “No- Sammy. I was wrong too, I shouldn’t have—”

“Don’t make excuses for me, Dean,” Sam says firmly as he gives Dean a knowing look. Caught out, Dean closes his mouth. Sam knows him too well.

Sighing, Sam says, “We’ve made a lot of mistakes, you and I, over the years. We didn’t trust each other when we should have. I said a lot of stupid things that I shouldn’t have. There’re so many things I gotta apologize for… I don’t think I’ll ever be able to cover it all. But for now… I just- I just want you to know—you’re my brother, Dean. I’ll always love you.”

Dean feels wetness in his eyes. He looks away hastily, trying to blink away the tears. But he finds himself being grabbed into a crushing hug, swept up into Sam’s arms. Finally, Sam releases him, and he looks into Dean’s eyes, smiling weakly. His eyes are also tellingly wet.

“Brothers?” he asks, voice rough.

“Brothers,” Dean agrees.

They smile at each other, and Dean feels light, as if the heaviness he’s been burdened with for so long is finally lifting away.

Sam laughs. “Okay- okay, I’ll just get the cuffs off then.”

He reaches for Dean and Castiel’s bound hands.

Dean watches as Sam fiddles with the key and prepares to insert it into the lock.

He knows he should be happy about this— this is all he’s wanted for weeks. With the cuffs off, he’ll have his powers back. There’ll be no more awkwardness, no more accidentally getting stuck in doorways, no more misbehaving boners in the shower, no more closets, no more being forced to endure the agony of Cas’s lack of personal boundaries…

… and no more Cas, period.

With the cuffs gone, there’s no reason for Cas to stick with Dean. No reason for him to press up close against Dean’s side as they sit the couch, watching terrible movies. No reason for Cas to lie next to him on Dean’s bed, reading quietly as Dean talks about nonsense to him. No reason for Cas to fall asleep next to Dean after they get themselves completely wasted like a couple of teenage delinquents who managed to break into the liquor cabinet, Cas’s head resting comfortably against Dean’s shoulders, fitting there so naturally like that’s where it was always meant to be.

Without the excuse of the handcuffs, Dean will never be able to be as close to Cas as he is now, ever again. They’ll go back to the way they were. Close friends, but nothing more.

“Wait,” Dean finds himself saying, and Sam pauses, turning to look at Dean in surprise.

“Keep them on.”

Sam’s mouth opens and he stares at Dean in shock, like he’s wondering whether Dean has completely lost his mind.

Dean gives him a crooked grin. “The punishment was until the end of the month, wasn’t it? It’s not the end of the month yet, last I checked.”

Sam stares at him. His expression plainly says, ‘ _Who are you and what have you done with my brother?_ ’

“I screwed up too, Sam, I’m sorry,” Dean says, and he really does mean it, “I made your life miserable for weeks. I was a total asshole. I brought hookers back to the Bunker and vandalized a national monument just to make you upset. I was a complete dick to you. I kinda had it coming.”

“So, yeah,” he finishes lamely, and if maybe he also has other reasons for wanting the cuffs to stay on, he doesn’t voice them. He just says, voice firm, “I gotta stick this one out till the end. It’s only right.”

Sam laughs half-heartedly. “Yeah, you were being pretty damn annoying,” he agrees with a wry smile. He gives Dean the bitchface. “My phone’s ringtone is still stuck on that stupid song about Barbie dolls.”

Dean grins sheepishly. “You gotta admit that song’s pretty catchy though,” he says. Winking, he starts singing the first line of the chorus, “ _I’m a Barbie girl, in the Barbie woooorld—”_

Shaking his head, Sam grins with fond exasperation and mock-punches Dean in the arm. “Jerk.”

Dean grins back. “Bitch,” he says, and he reaches up to muss up Sam’s hair as Sam yowls and tries to fend him off. Castiel joins in after a moment, holding Sam down as Dean mercilessly messes up his hair and then moves on to tickling him. For a while, the only sounds in the Bunker are loud laughter and Sam’s occasional girly screams for mercy. It’s absolutely amazing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that marks the end of the Sam and Dean brotherly conflict part of the plot! Only one thing in the plot left to settle now :D hehehe


	16. A Bitter Pill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean watches Titanic, does a dramatic reading of Fifty Shades of Grey, and throws a hissy fit upon being asked to take his ‘medicine’. Cas once again brings up the events of the demon cure, and Dean is forced into a confrontation with the most dreaded of all his enemies: _feelings_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is gonna be a two-parter update. I wanted to get out chapter 16 and 17 together because I feel like I've kinda used up my quota of allowable evil cliffhangers for one fic. Don't say I'm not a nice person.
> 
> All quoted passages in this chapter are of course from the E. L. James literary masterpiece _Fifty Shades of Grey_.
> 
>  **WARNING** : the last part of this chapter (i.e. the demon cure flashback) is fairly dark and may potentially be triggery (suicide, non-con). I figured I’d better warn to be safe. See end notes for more details (spoilers).

The next days seem to pass in a flurry, too fast for Dean’s liking. The time just flies by, and before Dean knows it, they are ticking down to the last few days before the end of the month. It shouldn’t feel like a death sentence, like Dean’s counting down the days till he’s off to the execution block, but somehow it does.

Dean makes Cas watch _Die Hard_ (“I fail to see the entertainment value in this, Dean. Unless one happens to enjoy endlessly repeating montages of people shooting other people.”), _The Exorcist_ (“Dean, you know that demonic possession doesn’t work this way. This film is extremely inaccurate.”), _Indiana Jones_ (“I must note that a whip is an extremely impractical weapon—” “Cas… Just roll with it and watch the show, kay?”), and _Pacific Rim_ , one of Dean’s newest guilty pleasures. (“This is so stupid and yet… strangely entertaining.” “I told you, Cas. _Giant robots_. _Punching monsters. In the face._ ”)

In turn, Cas makes Dean watch _The Avengers_ (which they both enjoy, though Cas has a rather sour look on his face when the name ‘Loki’ is first mentioned), the Harry Potter films (Cas’s eyes get suspiciously moist every now and then, and he has to pause the film for five minutes to take a break for ‘eye-strain’ after the scene with Snape’s memories, during which Dean awkwardly passes him tissues while patting his back and pretends not to hear the angel sniffling), _The Fault in Our Stars_ (an immensely traumatizing and emotionally-scarring experience which neither of them are ever going to talk about again, forever and ever, amen), and _The Lord of the Rings._ (“I have a question, Dean. Why didn’t Gandalf just fly all of them to Mount Doom on the giant eagles and drop the One Ring in?” “Because then everything would be over in five minutes?”)

Despite their mutual agreement to steer well clear from romantic films after the disaster that was _The Fault in Our Stars_ (or as Dean calls it ‘ _That horrible, terrible, no-good film that we’re never speaking of again_ ’, or alternatively, a shorter title: ‘ _The Fault in Castiel’s Movie Choices’_ ), Cas eventually insists on checking out _Titanic_ , simply because he reasons that anything which Balthazar loathes so deeply must be at least some bit of good. Dean would tell him not to speak ill of the dead, especially of the dead angelic best friend Cas himself murdered, but he suspects that Cas would not appreciate it.

As expected, there are floods of tears, in between which Castiel points out every single inaccuracy in the movie, and then very seriously tries to calculate the possibility of a piece of wood supporting both Rose and Jack’s weight until Dean, fed up, cuts him off mid-equation and tells him that the weight of Rose equaled to _x_ , _x_ being Rose’s actual weight plus the weight of all the buckets of tears from people who cried during the film… _plus_ all of James Cameron’s angry tears after hearing about an overly nit-picky angel trying to poke holes in his Academy-Award-winning film’s plot.

Cas had stopped calculating after that.

They even manage to convince Sam to take a break and watch a few movies together with them. They marathon Star Wars again, Cas high-fiving Dean at all the right moments (Dean has taught Cas well) and quoting along with the film together with Dean- until Sam, getting annoyed with them, glares at them and asks them to stop.

They watch _When Harry met Sally_ next because Cas has apparently acquired a taste for romantic comedies. Sam keeps shooting Dean funny looks throughout the film, probably because he’s wondering why Dean is putting up with this. Yeah, Dean still utterly loathes this sappy, unrealistic chick flick shit, but Cas seems to love it, so whatever. He’ll deal.

Sam begs off the last half an hour of the show, citing the need to sleep, though Dean suspects he’s just bored out of his mind. Dean certainly is. But the small, content smile on Cas’s face as he gazes avidly at the television screen goes some way towards making up for it. Dean could spend hours just watching Cas like this. It’s really kind of pathetic.

Just then, Castiel’s head turns, almost as though he sensed Dean’s thoughts. His eyes meet Dean’s, too quick for Dean to drop his gaze and pretend he hadn’t been staring at Cas like an idiot for the past ten minutes or so.

Damn it. Caught right in the act. Dean feels himself reddening.

But Cas just smiles.

“Thank you for watching this with me, Dean,” he says. “I know this is not your preferred type of entertainment.”

“Ah,” Dean says, “It’s uh- no problem. Interesting new experience. A step out of my comfort zone.” He laughs awkwardly. “Always gotta try new things, y’know?”

Cas smiles at Dean, indulgent and fond.

“Very true,” he says. Then, after a moment, “You know what? Let’s watch _The Expendables_ after this. I can’t wait to watch more people getting shot at. One never gets tired of seeing things getting blown up.” His voice is deadpan, but Dean can see the playful smirk in his eyes.

Dean smiles, warmed by Castiel’s attempt to reciprocate. “You said it, Cas,” he says, pointing at the angel with a smirk, “No take backs.”

Maybe their time together is running out, but for now Dean will treasure what he has.

 

 

\---

 

“Hey, Cas. Get a load of this.” Dean says.

Eyebrows raised, he reads off from the book, “‘ _I pull him deeper into my mouth so I can feel him at the back of my throat and then to the front again. My tongue swirls around the end._ _He’s my very own Christian Grey flavored popsicle_ ’…” Dean stops quoting for a moment to snigger. “Wow. Just wow. _This_ is a national bestseller? … I guess I can see why. It’s so bad… it’s kinda good.”

Smirking, he continues reading, “‘ _Hmm… he’s soft and hard at once, like steel encased in velvet, and surprisingly tasty’_ …”

Cas shoots Dean an annoyed glare. “I already regret getting that book for you,” he says huffily.

Dean grins at him. “Hey! C’mon.” He waves the offending book at Cas. “This is a literary masterpiece. An invaluable addition to the Men of Letters library collection. Future generations will be thanking us for this.”

He idly scans the pages. “You know, she sure goes on a lot about some ‘inner goddess’ whenever she’s having some sexy times. Listen to this- ‘ _My inner goddess is doing the merengue with some salsa moves’_. Woah, funky… And then, there’s this one: _‘My inner goddess is doing the dance of the seven veils … Oh my_ _… It’s a curious feeling. Once they’re inside me, I can’t really feel them—but then again I know they’re there._ ’”

“She’s talking about a sex toy,” Dean helpfully clarifies.

Cas gives Dean an unamused look. “Dean. Please stop reading that out to me. I got the gist of the plot when you explained it the first time. You need not elaborate any further.”

Dean smirks. “You sure you don’t want me to read out the bit when they play with handcuffs?” Winking impishly, he gives their handcuffs a rattle.

Castiel shoots him a grumpy glare. “Extremely sure.”

“Aww… Okay, actually, this one’s better. _‘Why don’t you like to be touched?’ I whisper, staring up into soft grey eyes. ‘Because I’m fifty shades of fucked up, Anastasia.’_ ” Dean bursts out laughing as Castiel stares at him in disapproval, brows furrowed in an adorable little frown.

“Love the title drop,” Dean tells the angel, smirking. He finds another gem of a quote to read out to Castiel. “Hey, this bit’s awesome too. _‘“Suck me, baby.” His thumb presses on my tongue, and my mouth closes around him, sucking wildly. Holy fuck. This is wrong, but holy hell is it_ —”

“ _Ahem_ ,” comes the sound of somebody very pointedly clearing their throat. Dean turns around to see Sam leaning against the doorway, arms folded. One of his eyebrows is raised.

“Hey Sam!” Dean says happily. He raises the book up so that Sam can see its cover. “We’re reading your favorite book! Wanna join in?”

Sam gives him an annoyed look. “No thanks.”

He walks up to where Dean and Cas are sitting on the couch and then pauses there awkwardly. Dean looks expectantly up to Sam, but Sam doesn’t say anything. He just stands there, looking noticeably uncomfortable. He scratches at the back of his neck before lifting his eyes up to meet Dean’s.

This can’t be anything good. Smile falling off his face, Dean puts his book down. “What is it, Sam?”

“Uh,” says Sam slowly, “You know it’s gonna be the end of the month soon right?”

Dean nods slowly. What’s Sam getting at?

“Yeah, then the cuffs go off.”

“Right- right.” Sam fidgets, shifting his weight from one foot to another like he does when he’s nervous about something. Abruptly, he says, “You know I trust you, right?”

“Uhhh, yeah?” says Dean, bewildered. “We kinda already established that. You cried, I cried. It was very touching and all. Why are we talking about this again?”

Sam looks extremely conflicted. He stares at Dean in troubled silence as Dean frowns at him in confusion. Finally, seemingly having given on his quest to find the correct words, he just sticks his hand into his jacket and pulls something out, presenting it to Dean with an anxious look, biting his lip.

Dean stares at the syringe filled with blood.

“It’s almost the end of the month, so… that makes it about two months since your last injection,” Sam says, “I was thinking, maybe you should uh- you know…” He gives Dean a hesitant smile and waves the syringe at him. “Take your medicine?”

Dean stares at him incredulously, making no move to take the syringe. “Seriously? Are you kidding me?”

“Look, Dean. I know you’ve not had any uh- relapses yet, but it’s been nearly two months since your last dose—”

Dean glares at Sam and snaps, “What the hell, dude?” He gives Sam a dirty look and leans away defensively. “Are you trying to get me addicted? Hooked on the _Samphetamines_? Do you see me giving you syringes of _my_ blood?” He gives Sam an accusing glare. “If you don’t see me trying to give you my blood, you don’t try to give me yours!”

Sam’s mouth drops open and he stares at Dean as though Dean had just accused him of being a puppy-murderer. “That’s completely different!”

“How is it different? Did you see what that stuff did to Crowley? I’m not turning into some kind of blood junkie, jonesing for the next fix!”

Dean huffs angrily, and glares daggers at the syringe that Sam is still holding out towards him. “Get that thing away from me! I’m a demon, not a vampire!”

Sam gives him a pleading look. “Dean, this isn’t about me not trusting you, okay? I know that you’re… _you_ again. You’re not gonna go out and start murdering people on a whim- I know that now. But you gotta admit… better safe than sorry. Look what happened to Crowley after he kicked human blood—”

“I’m nothing like that son of a bitch!” Dean spits angrily, glaring at Sam. When Sam still does not back down, he snaps, “I’m fine, Sam. I’m fan-friggin’-tastic!”

Sam snorts. “Yeah, I remember what happened the last time you said that to me,” he mutters under his breath, too low for human ears-- but not for Dean’s.

Dean glares at him and says icily, “I can hear you, you know.”

Sam sighs. “Dean…”

Dean snarls at him, “Go away, Sammy.” He turns away from Sam, pointedly ignoring his brother. Beside him, Cas raises an eyebrow and gives Dean a disapproving look.

Sam’s voice is concerned as he says, “Dean, what’s the problem?”

“There is no problem! Other than the fact you’re trying to get me hooked on human blood!”

“C’mon, Dean. I know there’s something more going on here. You always blow up whenever anyone so much as _mentions_ the cure—”

“There’s nothing going on, okay!” Dean snarls, and it is at that moment that Castiel decides to join the conversation. “Dean-” he says, and from the tone of his voice, Dean knows he is going to try to do his Dr. Drew thing.

“I swear, if any of you even try to tell me to ‘ _talk about my feelings’_ , I really am gonna snap and kill someone!”

Cas frowns at him pointedly, lips thin. “Dean, we need to talk about healthy coping mechanisms.” Raising an eyebrow, he comments dryly, "I’d have thought that recent events should have impressed upon you the inherent lack of wisdom in trying to hide your crippling emotional pain by throwing tantrums and arguing with your brother.”

Mouth dropping open, Dean gapes at Cas in shocked outrage for an uncomfortably long moment. Recovering his wits, he shoots the angel an absolutely venomous glare, but Cas does not even blink.

“I’ll handle Dean,” he tells Sam smoothly, and he plucks the syringe from Sam’s hand.

Sam looks askance at Cas, but the angel nods firmly at him, and Sam reluctantly walks away, throwing one last worried glance at Dean before he leaves the room.

Dean folds his arms, the brusque motion yanking Castiel’s left arm unceremoniously to one side. It’s terribly rude and probably not very comfortable for Cas, but Dean couldn’t care less.

He glares at Cas, daring the angel to just try it. However, Cas merely looks back at him evenly.

“Dean,” he says, “Please cooperate. Surely you see the necessity for this precaution.” When Dean still does not reply, he continues, “It’s only one jab.”

Dean snorts angrily and spits, “You’re just gonna stick that thing in me no matter what I say, aren’t you?”

Cas sighs. “I’d much rather you agree to this, Dean.”

Dean ignores him.

Then, Cas’s hand is on his forearm and he is turning Dean around to face him. “Dean, please…” he says, and his eyes are so wide and so blue. Dean finds his resolve crumbling. Cas looks wretched, miserable, like he’s being forced to do something he really doesn’t want to do but knows he has to do nonetheless, for the greater good. Dean doesn’t want to force Cas to have to make that choice.

Wordlessly, Dean offers up his neck. Castiel’s eyes soften, and he smiles in thanks as he pushes in the needle.

The blood slides in, and Dean feels it like a jolt to his system. It makes him faintly light-headed, and Dean sways for an instant but Cas catches him immediately. They sit there on the couch for a few minutes in silence, Cas peering at him in concern as Dean stares blankly at the air, feeling dazed.

The blood is working its way through his veins, and just like Dean knew it would, it’s stirring up his emotions, awakening feelings that Dean has tried his best to keep buried. Like a rising tide, a wave of despairing helplessness surges over him. It makes him feel so weak. So angry.

Shaken, Dean roughly pushes himself away from Cas, wobbling to his feet.

Looking at Castiel’s startled expression, the angel’s eyes wide with concern for Dean - _why is he doing that, why is he looking at Dean like that, Dean can’t stand it_ \- Dean is caught between fury and despair, and it frightens him. He needs to do something. Do anything. He needs to get away.

He needs to make some stew.

“Dean, what are you doing?”

Dean ignores Cas, striding furiously towards the kitchen. Dragged along by the cuffs, Cas is forced into a quick trot in order to keep up.

“Dean,” the angel says insistently, “Where are we going?” When Dean still doesn’t reply, he repeats his question.

Jesus, Cas is so friggin’ annoying. He’s like a goddamned gnat, always buzzing around, yattering on incessantly. Dean wishes he would just shut up.

“Dean-”

Dean whirls on Castiel. “We’re going to the kitchen, alright? I want to make stew!”

Cas frowns at him, canting his head to one side in that familiar head tilt of confusion. “Stew?” he says bewilderedly. “Why—”

“Yes, stew!” Dean snaps, throwing his arms up in exasperation, “You know, that soupy food thing that humans make? I’m all chock-full of humanity now, so I figure I should make some stew to celebrate!”

Cas looks at Dean as though he thinks Dean has gone a bit mad.

“Dean…”

Dean huffs and promptly strides off towards the kitchen again, dragging Cas along behind him.

After reaching the kitchen, he yanks the fridge door open with more force than is strictly necessary and glares at the contents of the fridge. Still pointedly ignoring Cas, he pulls out the ingredients for the John Winchester famous cure-all kitchen sink stew. He dumps them on the kitchen countertop haphazardly, with loud bangs to punctuate every action.

“Dean,” says Castiel.

“Stop saying my name,” Dean snaps, “You’re gonna wear it out.”

He begins chopping the carrots, bringing the knife down viciously like each carrot is Castiel’s face. He imagines the carrots screaming in terror, their little carroty hearts pounding as Dean gruesomely murders them and chops them up into tiny orange pieces. It doesn’t make him feel any better.

“Dean, why are you—”

“Can’t a man make stew without his motives being questioned at every turn?” Dean waves the knife around, glaring furiously. Cas is watching him cautiously, brows furrowed, like he thinks Dean’s a bomb that is about to explode any moment.

Still glaring daggers at Castiel, Dean continues to murder the carrots. “It’s just stew! It’s just some stupid stew, my stupid father’s stupid stew—”

“Dean!” Cas cries, “Watch out—”

Dean’s knife flies down and instead of slicing into a carrot, he finds himself hacking into his index finger.

There’s blood everywhere. He damn near took his own finger off. Sometimes, Dean forgets how freakishly strong he is now. It’s yet another reminder of his lack of humanity that he especially doesn’t need now.

A particularly vicious twinge of pain reminds him that his finger is still half chopped off and he’s bleeding like a stuck pig. Dean glares at the offending appendage in annoyance. He puts down the knife.

A bark of bitter laughter is bubbling up in him.

Oh, just look at him. The great Dean Winchester. So rubbish at being human now he can’t even cook a simple meal without nearly taking off his own damn finger. What a disgrace. But what do you expect? He’s a friggin’ _demon_.

“Let me heal that,” Cas says, and his hands are suddenly all up in Dean’s space, one stretched out to touch Dean’s forehead and the other going for Dean’s bleeding finger. Snarling, Dean jerks away from the two outstretched fingers seeking his forehead and whips his injured hand away from Castiel’s reach, cradling it to his chest protectively.

“Don’t touch me,” he growls harshly, eyes flashing.

“Dean, your finger has nearly been severed-” Cas makes another grab for Dean’s finger, but Dean dances out of his reach, the chain of the handcuffs going taut as he stretches it to its limit.

Glaring hard at Castiel, he says, “Don’t you fucking touch me.”

Castiel’s brows furrow into a frown at the vulgarity. There is a pinched look on his face. “Dean, why do you hate being healed by me so much?”

Cas looks sad, and the hurt in his expression is tinged with the barest hint of frustration and anger.

When Dean doesn’t answer him- just glares defiantly at Cas in mute anger as he clutches at his bleeding finger- Cas says, voice softer, concerned, “Dean. What’s wrong?”

Dean looks away, unable to meet Castiel’s gaze.

What can he tell Cas? That it makes him uncomfortable? That it makes him feel ashamed of himself, what he has become?

Being healed by Cas… it had amazed him the first time it happened, the clean, pure rush of grace as it surged through him, making whole what had been torn asunder, everything as it was- blood, bone and sinew. The first time Cas had healed him, Dean had spent longer than he’d care to admit lying on his bed at night, one hand tracing his flesh where the wounds had been, the other lingering on the scar of Castiel’s handprint on his shoulder, a sense of wonderment, something almost like awe, stirring in him. However, through the years, Castiel’s healing had lost its novelty. It had become just another perk of having the angel around. Cas’s handy little trick. Dean had gotten so used to it; it was almost like he was taking it for granted. Much like so many other things, it is only until Dean has lost it that he truly begins to appreciate its value.

Now, every time Cas heals him, all it does is remind Dean of what used to be, when he had been human. He had so casually accepted Castiel’s touch- two fingers on the forehead, a surge of grace, and all Dean’s wounds would be wiped away, like they had never existed. He had thought nothing more of it.

It’s not that being healed by Cas hurts him now, even though he is a demon. Nothing has really changed, and that’s the worst part of it. When Cas heals him, that bright rush of power is exactly the same, winding its way through Dean’s flesh and blood and bone, soothing away all the pain and the damage, a gentle, comforting warmth. No, it’s Dean that’s changed.

Dean wants it so bad, that feeling of pure, soothing renewal, like a balm upon his soul, so familiar and safe, but at the same time, it only reminds him of how far he has changed, how far from human he is now. When Cas heals him now, all he can think of is how impure and foul he feels, how unworthy. He wishes that it would hurt, and the fact that it doesn’t makes him feel angry and ashamed. He’s a goddamned demon; he doesn’t deserve to be touched like he’s human again.

“I can’t- I can’t do this right now,” Dean says. It’s the human blood. It’s getting to him, making him all weepy inside. His mood is all over the place, vacillating wildly between anger and despair.

Cas is saying something, but Dean ignores him. He stalks out of the kitchen, leaving the half-finished stew behind, and makes a beeline for his room. Cas follows him without protest and does not try to make any further grabs for Dean’s finger, thank god for small mercies.

By the time they reach Dean’s bedroom, the pain has settled to a low throb, and the flesh of his finger seems to have mostly healed over, leaving nothing but an angry red scar. Dean falls heavily onto the bed, not even bothering to kick his shoes off, and proceeds to stare blankly at the ceiling. He ignores Cas as the angel stands over him, frowning faintly down at Dean, splayed out on the bed like a puppet with its strings cut.

“Dean.” The way Cas says his name is almost an art. The angel somehow always manages to pack so much meaning into one little syllable. And right now, that meaning is indubitably disapproval.

Dean wants to tell Cas to shove off, but that’s kind of impossible right now, what with the cuffs being on. What on earth had possessed him to stop Sam from taking them off? Dean’s cursing himself so much now for his sheer idiocy.

“Dean, this is about the cure, isn’t it? Dean? Dean!”

Dean ignores Cas’s insistent questioning. He just stares at the ceiling as if it is the most interesting thing in the whole universe.

Suddenly, Cas yanks him up by the cuffs, and Dean is pulled sharply into a sitting position. “Ouch!” he cries, grabbing his right arm and rubbing it where the cuffs had dug painfully into his flesh. “What the hell was that for?”

He glares at Cas, furious.

Cas glares back. He looks royally pissed. It’s been a long time since Dean’s seen the angel so mad.

“I always knew humans have an incredible capacity for lying to themselves,” Cas tells him furiously, “and that you are a true master of emotional repression, but even for you, this level of self-deception is _stunning_.”

Dean gapes at him, absolutely dumbfounded.

Cas ploughs on like a steam train, not letting Dean get a word in edgewise, “You may think me an idiot, Dean, but I’m not. I _know_ , Dean. I know everything.” He gives Dean a firm look. “I know why you were so reluctant for me to become your guardian. I know why you wanted out of the cuffs so desperately.”

There’s a sinking feeling at the bottom of Dean’s stomach. “You don’t know shit, Castiel!” he snaps.

“Oh, is that so?”

Cas looks furious, his eyes flashing with unbridled anger, and Dean is suddenly reminded of the time the angel had laid onto him like a raging tornado, all fists and barely restrained force, during that dark period when Dean had been ready to give in to Michael. And worst of all is that all too familiar crushing disappointment in his eyes.

“You know what I think, Dean? I think maybe it’s easier telling yourself that you have no chance than to admit that you’re just too much of a coward to give in to your feelings.” Cas gives Dean a look of withering scorn. “I’ve waited, I’ve been patient, I’ve tried to let you come to terms with this yourself, but it seems that I must now force the issue.”

He looks into Dean’s eyes with furious intent. “Is it true, what you told me when you were being cured?”

Dean freezes, his heart racing. He starts to turn away, but a firm yank on the cuffs stops him.

“Dean, look at me,” Cas says, and against all reason, Dean finds himself looking into Cas’s deep blue eyes. Dean feels like he is drowning in that gaze, like the air is dwindling from his lungs, even though he knows he doesn’t even need to breathe if he doesn’t want to.

Castiel repeats his question, voice firm, “Did you mean what you said when I was administering the cure?”

Dean wants to look away, but he can’t. Castiel’s gaze is piercing. Dean feels it like a knife, cutting all the way through him, right to the very heart of him. He tries for an airy, careless grin, but it probably comes out looking more like a grimace.

“I said a lot of things during the cure,” he says, tone deliberately light. His bark of laughter is forced, and it sounds horribly false even to his ears. “You’re gonna have to be a lot more specific.”

Cas looks him dead in the eye.

“Did you mean it when you said that you loved me?”

 

\---

 

Somewhere around the third injection, Dean stopped spitting pure hateful threats of what he would do to Sam and Cas and everything they had ever loved.

It had been amusing at first, seeing the naked pain in Sam’s eyes, watching him flinch away as Dean snarled at him, throwing words out like weapons, making Sam hurt worse than any physical blows could. Dean had recounted in gory detail the way he had ripped into every single one of his victims, taking proud relish in the way Sam stared at him, disgust and despair warring in his eyes. Then, he had started in on the ways he would make Sam scream and beg him for the mercy of death. Oh, Sam had tried to keep a brave front, he really did. _Poor, brave Sammy, keeping it together for his big brother_. How _sweet_. But it hadn’t taken long before the tears had started coming to Sam’s eyes. It was when Dean told Sam how much he hated him that Sam had broken into huge, gasping sobs, unable to hide his anguish anymore.

Dean had been very pleased with that.

But Cas had made Sam leave after the second injection. Then, it had been only been him and Dean, chained up and on his knees in the middle of the devil’s trap.

Castiel watched him like a hawk, silent and unblinking, the perfect sentinel, and Dean had railed at him from within the devil’s trap, using every cruel word in his arsenal, wanting only to wound- to _hurt_.

He had called Cas every terrible thing he had ever thought about the angel. He had taken all the anger and frustration he had ever felt at Cas, turned them into poisonous, barbed words that cut to the very bone. But the angel just stared at Dean, and his face was blank and expressionless. He just stood there, watching Dean quietly as Dean screamed at him about all the horrible things Dean would do to him once he broke free of the trap. He didn’t even react when Dean described in loving detail how he would rip his wings off, feather by feather, how he’d laugh as Castiel screamed in agony.

And every hour, on the dot, Cas would walk into the devil’s trap with a syringe of Sam’s blood. He’d hold Dean still and jab it into Dean’s neck in one quick, efficient motion, smoothly avoiding any of Dean’s attempts to bite him. He was nothing if not professional, his expression as cold and stony as a marble statue. It had made Dean even more furious.

It was after the third injection that Dean decided to change tactics.

As Castiel watched him, face solemn, Dean smiled, slow and dangerous. “You like this, don’t you?” he said, voice silky.

Castiel ignored him.

“Me on my knees,” Dean continued, tone coy. “All chained up. Helpless.”

Castiel was frowning now, a slight furrowing of his brows.

Dean smiled, delighted at the appearance of this first crack in the angel’s armor. “I’ve seen the way you look at me.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “You want this.”

Castiel stared at him, aghast. He looked horror-struck, disgusted. Some small part of Dean, buried deep inside, cried out in pain at that expression, but Dean was too exultant to care. He let his eyes turn black, and laughed as Castiel jerked, a sort of horrified fascination crossing his face briefly.

“I know your dirty little secret, Castiel,” Dean said, and he took great delight in the fear that Cas tried and failed to hide. As Cas stared at him, eyes widening almost imperceptibly, Dean laughed, cruelly amused. “Do the other angels know? About your little… _demon thing_.” He winked. “So kinky, Castiel. Who would have thought?”

As Castiel stared at him, caught between anger and revulsion, Dean smiled in dark satisfaction.

“You and Meg, that was fun, wasn’t it?” Dean said, looking at Castiel through lowered lashes. “Think about how much fun we could have, Cas, if you let me out of these chains.”

Castiel ignored him, turning his face away. Dean caught the trace of shame as it passed fleetingly across the angel’s face, and he smiled in triumph.

“I know you want this,” he said. Smirking, he whispered, “Let me out, and I’ll let you do whatever you want with this body. You can have your way with me- just imagine all the wicked things we could do.” He smiled, sly and knowing, dark with promise. “I’ll scream for you, baby, how would you like that? I’ll show you such a good time, you’ll be begging, begging for more—”

Cas spun on his heel and stalked right out of the room. From the brief glimpse Dean had caught of his expression, he looked as though Dean had just slapped him in the face.

When he came back, he was holding another syringe of blood in his hand. His expression was stormy, dark with barely suppressed rage.

“Oh, Cas,” Dean said, “Is that for me? You really shouldn’t have.”

As Castiel walked forward, stepping into the devil’s trap, Dean licked his lips, slowly and purposefully, putting on a show for the angel. “How can I ever thank you? Tell you what. Let me out, and I’ll show you my gratitude. Would you like that? I’ll even keep my eyes black—”

Castiel grabbed Dean’s head roughly, holding him still in a vice-like grip as he stuck the syringe in with far more force than was required. Dean felt the blood go in, a surge of white-hot pain burning through his veins.

But he made himself laugh. “Ooh, so _forceful_. I like it when you’re rough. It makes me all tingly inside.”

Cas released him with a jerk, his face twisted in anger and pain. For one moment, Dean thought the angel might hit him, but Castiel walked away, shoulders stiff, and proceeded to lean against the wall, ignoring Dean for the rest of the hour, even as Dean went into lurid detail about what exactly he would like to do to Cas, and what the angel should do to him in return. He was going into a particularly vivid fantasy of how he would take Cas hard against the wall as Cas begged for him to stop when suddenly, something inside him broke.

Suddenly, he couldn’t stand the thought of Cas weeping, couldn’t stand the thought of hurting Cas. The bile was coming up his throat, and he was choking.

That was when he started pleading.

“Please. Please let me go,” he begged Castiel, and the angel looked up, startled at Dean’s sudden change in tone. “Please make it stop.”

“If you ever considered me your friend,” Dean said, looking pleadingly at Castiel, “You’ll let me go.”

Cas didn’t meet his eyes.

“Please. Please…” Dean was starting to cry, the tears running down his face, unstoppable. “I- I can’t. I can’t—”

He opened his mouth to scream, raw and ragged, “If you ever cared for me, you won’t do this to me!” before breaking into loud, gasping sobs. In between sobs, he mumbled, “Why are you doing this to me? Why… why…”

Castiel looked utterly wrecked. His blue eyes were large and sad. But he didn’t make a move to help Dean. He just stood there, against the wall, watching Dean with those horrible, sad blue eyes until the fourth hour was up. Then, he moved to where Dean was kneeling, rocking with the force of his sobs, and this time when he injected Dean with the blood, his touch was gentle.

“I’m sorry, Dean,” he whispered as he pushed the plunger down. The blood seeped into Dean’s veins, burning hot poison, spreading its toxic roots throughout his body, throughout his very soul. Dean tried to flinch away from Castiel’s touch, shutting his eyes so that he could no longer see the angel. Hiding like a frightened child, closing his eyes so that he could pretend the monsters didn’t exist—that he wasn’t a monster himself.

He remained like that for the rest of the fifth hour, gently rocking himself from side to side as he sobbed, quiet tears that trickled slowly down his cheeks. He only opened his eyes again when he felt warm fingers on his face, wiping away the tears.

Castiel was smiling at him gently, and Dean couldn’t take it. “It’ll be okay, Dean,” the angel said as he pressed the needle into Dean’s neck. “Everything will be fine.” Dean wanted to scream at him, to tell him to stop lying, to stop with the useless platitudes, but his tongue was leaden, and all he could was stare pathetically at Castiel through watery eyes. Suddenly, Cas was pressing his lips against Dean’s, a soft, chaste kiss, barely even a brush of the lips. It was over before Dean could even process it. Then, Cas was straightening up.

Gently releasing Dean’s face from his hold, he said, “It’s going to be over soon. Just two more, Dean. Then it’ll be over.”

Dean remained silent for the rest of the sixth hour, just staring quietly at his manacled hands, watching the tears slowly falling down onto the ground. He felt numb, like all the crying had emptied him out, like the emotion had all been wrung out of him, like water from a towel. But after the seventh injection, he was suddenly overcome by an overwhelming fear.

Before he knew it, he was sobbing, huge, gasping sobs that wracked his entire body. He was shaking with the force of them.

“Don’t make me go back. Please, don’t make me go back,” he cried, “I don’t wanna go back.”

He was crying unstoppably, loud keening sobs like an animal in pain. The tears were choking Dean. He felt as though he was drowning slowly, all the breath going out of him, but the words could not be stopped. They came out in a rough mutter, low and hoarse, filled with pleading, “I don’t wanna be human. I don’t wanna… I don’t…”

Castiel watched him, face carefully blank. But his mask began to crack when Dean started to beg, sobbing desperately as he said, the words tumbling out of him in an unstoppable stream, “Please just kill me. I want to die… Please just let me die… I’d rather die than go back.”

Cas shook his head, and Dean could see the flash of fear in his eyes.

“No, Dean…” he said slowly.

Dean half-sobbed, half-screamed, a desperate, inarticulate cry of ragged emotion. “Just let me die, damn you. If you have any mercy, you’d just _kill me_!”

Cas looked at Dean as though Dean had just stabbed him in the heart.

“Please…” Dean begged him, “Please… I want to die… I just wanna die…” He bowed his head, crying as he repeated it like a mantra, “I just wanna die- I just—”

Castiel looked helpless, desperate worry in his eyes. “Dean—it’s going to be okay. Please just bear with it a little longer…”

Dean tuned him out.

He let himself fall sideways onto the ground with a loud crash, the chains suddenly too heavy to bear, like great weights pressing down on him. He curled in on himself, squeezing his eyes shut, trying his best to stop the tears, but they just kept coming. The ground was cold against his cheek, the rough grit of the stone pressing almost painfully into the flesh of his face.

Under his breath, he murmured quietly to himself, as the traitorous tears escaped his eyes, “I can’t bear it. I can’t bear being human again.” He swallowed hard, the sobs threatening to choke him up again.

“I can’t bear it,” he whispered, and suddenly Dean was screaming, “I hate being human! I hate it! _I hate it!_ I hate loving you! I would rather _die_ than love you again! I _hate_ you!”

He glared at Castiel, who was staring at him in shock, mouth open. “ _I hate you!_ ” he hissed, but then he was crying again. “I hate you,” he tried to say, but nothing came out.

“Dean…” Castiel looked devastated, his eyes were brimming with tears, his gaze heavy with pity, and Dean couldn’t stand looking at him anymore.

Dean turned his face away from Castiel. “Just leave me alone.”

When Castiel still did not move, Dean looked straight into his eyes, snarling in fury, “ _Leave me the fuck alone!_ ”

Castiel quietly complied, leaving the room as Dean broke down into sobs. It was only after the seventh hour came to an end that he came back into the room, a syringe of blood held in his hand. Dean had stopped crying by then, nothing but blank emptiness in him and a quiet, resigned acceptance. He nodded calmly at Cas as the angel walked towards him. Lifting his head to bare his neck, he allowed Castiel to push the needle in one last time. The blood burned as it went in, but it felt good, like a cleansing fire, burning away the rot inside of him. Dean welcomed the pain.

“Do it,” he told Castiel. “Finish the cure.”

But Cas did not call Sam in. Instead, he asked, “How do you feel, Dean?”

Numb, Dean replied, “Like there’s a big hole in me. I don’t know, Cas. I’m still not human.”

“You’re human enough,” Cas told Dean.

He knelt down. With slow, solemn motions, he began to undo Dean’s shackles.

Dean looked at him in surprise. “What- what are you doing? Why aren’t you finishing the cure?”

Castiel did not look at him as he fiddled with the manacles. “Finishing the cure might complete the Trials for Sam. And we can’t be sure the Mark won’t just kill you again.”

Cas finished undoing the shackles. They fell away in a clatter of metal. Dean just stared blankly up at him, not making a move despite his newfound freedom.

Castiel’s eyes were wary. He looked at Dean as if he was half-expecting Dean to surge up and claw at him, and Dean realized how easy it would be to do it, to end Castiel’s life, but then he realized, with faint surprise, that he didn’t want to. The compulsive urge to kill, for the first in a very long while, was gone. He stared numbly at Cas.

Cas smiled at him, and there was something bittersweet and sad in the small half-smile on his face. “Let’s go, Dean.”

Dean followed in a daze as Castiel led him to his brother, and the way Sam looked at him, with so much hope shining in his eyes, nearly broke Dean. He could almost forget the shame burning in him from all the things he said, all the secrets that were revealed, lying heavy between him and Cas, unspoken but present nonetheless.

It was only after they had returned to the Bunker and Sam had collapsed into bed, exhausted and barely functioning after days of going without sleep, that Dean found the courage to turn to Cas.

“Cas,” he said hesitantly, “About what I said during the cure-”

Cas turned to look at him, and there was some strange emotion shining in his eyes for a moment, before the angel’s expression closed off, and there was nothing but the usual solemn expression on his face.

“You know that I—” For one long moment, Dean stared at Cas, his heart pounding. He thought about coming clean, ending all the secrets and lies. The words were on the tip of his tongue.

But then he remembered the look of horrified disgust on Cas’s face when Dean had tried to seduce him, the terrible pity in his eyes as Dean made his unwitting confession. He remembered what he was now. The words died on his lips, and Dean said instead, “—I would have said anything to make you stop… You get that, right?” He laughed, and tried to ignore how tight and forced it sounded. “I mean—you’re my best friend. I don’t love you that way. That’s- that’s _ridiculous_.”

He looked desperately at Cas, willing the angel to agree. “Ridiculous,” Cas said, tone flat, “Yes, of course. It’s ridiculous,” and for one moment, Dean thought he caught a flash of something like hurt cross the angel’s face, but the moment passed. It was probably just wishful thinking, a trick of the light.

Dean laughed awkwardly. “Let’s uh- never talk about this again? Okay?”

Castiel nodded, and Dean smiled hesitantly, lifting a hand out to clap Cas on the shoulder. “You’re a great friend, Cas. Thanks for, you know-” He tried to fumble for words, but nothing could ever encompass all that Cas had done for him, and all that came out was a stilted, pathetic, “-for everything.”

However, Cas just smiled back at him, and said softly, “You’re welcome, Dean,” and Dean tried to ignore the pain twisting in the pit of his stomach or the way Cas’s smile had not reached his eyes.

That had been the end of it, or so Dean had thought.

Until now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **WARNING** : There is a sentence where Dean (non-graphically) describes imagined non-consensual sex between himself and Castiel. There is a segment where Dean expresses suicidal urges and begs Cas to kill him.
> 
> If these make you feel uncomfortable, feel free to skip that portion. I will give a short summary here: 
> 
> During the demon cure, Dean unwittingly admitted that he loved Cas, but then later chickened out of a full confession because he felt too ashamed (amongst various other ridiculous Dean reasons). So he lied to Cas instead, and the two of them agreed never to speak of it again.


	17. Cursed or Not

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The moment we've all been waiting for

Swallowing hard, Dean looks down at his hands, but that is a mistake because he then sees the cuffs chaining him to Cas. His cheeks feel strange. He lifts his hand up to brush at his face and his fingers come away wet.

His breathing is ragged, like he just ran a thousand miles.

Cas is looking worriedly at him, the anger fading from his face. Dean can see the apology in his eyes as they soften. He looks like he is beginning to deeply regret his earlier words.

“Dean,” Castiel says gently, “I’m sorry for asking. It’s okay. You don’t need to tell me anything if you don’t want to.”

Then Dean surges up and kisses him with passion, his weight bearing down on Castiel until Castiel is pushed onto the bed. Their cuffed hands are clasped together. The kiss is wet and filthy and hot. _Hot as hell_. Dean thinks to himself gleefully. _Exactly as hot as hell_.

Cas’s eyes are wide as Dean pulls away. He looks utterly shocked, and he stares at Dean as if he can’t quite believe what is happening.

Dean pants, and slides his un-cuffed hand down to Castiel’s pants to palm at Castiel’s obvious hard-on.

“Dean, no, you’re not yourself—the human blood…” Cas says in harsh pants, even as Dean slides a hand slowly down the curve of his erection, making Castiel shudder. “I’m sorry- I shouldn’t have—”

“This is me,” Dean says angrily, “This is exactly me. This is who I’ve always been. I’ve just been too afraid to show it.” He captures Castiel’s mouth in a bruising kiss, leaving the angel gasping before he pulls away. “But maybe I like it more this way.” Another kiss, a nibble on Castiel’s lips. “You’re right. I was a coward. But I don’t have to be now. This new me? I can do whatever I want.”

Cas sits up slowly, staring at Dean with wide eyes as Dean speaks, voice low like he’s making a confession, “All my life, I’ve done the right thing. Protecting Sam, hunting monsters, saving people, heck- saving the whole damn world. Living this shitty, screwed up life. I’ve been a good son for as long as I can remember. Daddy’s mindless little tin soldier…”

He laughs bitterly. “But then you came along, and things- things changed. You made me want something for myself. For once in my life, I wanted to be selfish. I wanted to do something that I knew was wrong, that I knew Dad would disapprove of…” He looks at Castiel, smiling bitterly as he traces a finger down Cas’s face.

“And sometimes, when I lay in bed at night trying to fall asleep, I even dared to think that maybe- maybe I did deserve something for myself. Maybe after all I’ve done, all the shit I’ve been through, maybe I did deserve to some small measure of happiness. But then I thought- all my life I’ve denied myself all the things I wanted- a normal life, peace, happiness… love. What’s one more sacrifice? What’s one more hopeless dream to give up on? Deep down inside, I always knew I didn’t deserve to be happy anyway.”

Cas’s eyes are large and sad, full of unbearable compassion. He looks he wants to protest, but Dean doesn’t give him the chance to speak.

“But now… now… I realize- I don’t have to be that person anymore. I don’t have to be good anymore. I can just take what I want. I can be selfish.”

He looks back at Castiel, staring deep into the angel’s eyes as he says, “I can let myself want you.”

Tenderly, he cups Castiel’s face in his hand. Cas’s eyes are wide. He stares at Dean in wondering, mute shock.

“I know you want this too,” he tells Castiel. “I’ve seen the way you look at me.”

Castiel’s face turns guilty. He does not disagree. “Cas, this is me now,” Dean tells him softly. “This is probably all I’m ever going to be.” He swallows. “I’m sorry. I know you loved him, and I’m not that man anymore-”

Cas takes Dean’s face in both hands and kisses him furiously, yanking Dean’s cuffed hand up too in the process. It is terribly awkward but Dean doesn’t care. He just presses his cuffed hand over Castiel’s to hold Castiel’s hand against his cheek, leaning into the touch. Eventually, after what seems like an eternity, Cas ends the kiss, but he doesn’t move away. They just lean against each other, foreheads pressed together, breathing in slowly.

They stay like that for a long while before Dean finally breaks the silence with a soft chuckle.

“Isn’t it funny?” Dean says quietly, “It took becoming a demon to make me stop hating myself for loving you. That’s pretty unhealthy, isn’t it? Just one more way I’m screwed up inside. Thanks for that again, Dad.”

“Dean, you’re not screwed up.”

Dean laughs humorlessly. “Oh yeah? I’m a fucking demon. That’s pretty much the definition of screwed up. I’m broken, Cas. I know that.”

Cas’s voice is firm, matching the resolution in his eyes as he says with conviction, “You’re not broken, Dean.”

Gently, he pushes Dean onto the bed. Slowly, he begins to kiss his way down Dean’s neck, mouthing at the skin as Dean moans.

“Cas,” Dean pants. He can feel the heavy throb of his erection pressing against his pants. Cas licks at his collarbone, before moving upwards, letting his tongue slowly trace the line of Dean’s throat. Dean moans and his hips buck upwards involuntarily.

He feels it when his eyes change, and he knows without looking into a mirror that his eyes have turned pure black. He can’t help it. His control is shattered, he can barely think, and even as he tries to will his eyes back to a normal, human green, his focus drifts—his concentration breaking every time Cas presses a kiss to his skin, and the black comes flooding back in. It’s maddening.

And to think- he’d gotten so good at keeping his eyes normal; these days, they don’t turn black unless he wants them to. But just look at him now. Months and months of hard-won control, all gone because of one damn angel.

Dean turns his face away from Cas and squeezes his eyes shut, trying his best to will away the blackness.

But his eyes open when he feels fingers on his cheek. Gently, Dean finds his head being tugged around to face Castiel. “You don’t need to hide, Dean,” Cas says. He smiles at Dean, and the clear acceptance in his eyes makes Dean’s breath catch in his throat.

“I don’t- I don’t want you to see me like this,” he says weakly.

“There is nothing you need to be ashamed of,” Cas says. He leans in to press a gentle kiss to the top of Dean’s head before pulling back to smile at Dean.

Dean shakes his head sharply. He waves a jerky hand at himself. “Look at me- I’m- I’m--” Hideous, he wants to say. A monster. But Dean isn’t quite so far gone yet. He’s not gonna start weeping in Cas’s arms like some kind of friggin’ drama queen.

Cas understands nonetheless. He takes Dean’s hand in his, clasping both hands over Dean’s. “You are yourself, Dean,” he says. “The same man I fell in love with so many years ago. Even after all that has happened, your soul is as beautiful as it was the day I first laid eyes on it when I pulled you out of the Pit.” He looks firmly into Dean’s eyes, and his conviction is so strong that it almost makes Dean believe it himself. “Nothing can ever change that. Nothing ever will.”

“Cas…” Dean says softly. He looks away, blinking away the tears in his eyes. Damn it, crying during sex. What the hell, man? To think he used to tease Sam about this. “Cas, I—”

But he looks up when he feels a gentle tug on the handcuffs. Cas is grinning, and there is a glint in his eye that is uncharacteristically mischievous. “Shut your piehole, Dean,” he says, and then he is kissing Dean. It is a thoroughly effective distraction. Soon enough, Dean is moaning, clutching desperately at Cas as he murmurs the angel’s name.

Suddenly, Dean’s shirt is gone, vanished into thin air in a flare of angelic grace. Cas licks a long stripe down from Dean’s bellybutton, and Dean shudders uncontrollably, a low moan escaping him. “Cas,” he gasps, “Cas- please-”

Castiel looks up at him, and his eyes are dark, the pupils blown. He licks his lips. “Dean,” he says, low and rough, and Dean shivers at the sound of his voice. Cas smiles, slow and lazy, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to Dean, and he bows his head again. Then, Cas is pressing kisses to Dean’s stomach as Dean writhes, fingers clutching wildly at the sheets.

Cas begins working his way lower and lower, feather light flicks of tongue. With nimble fingers, he unzips Dean’s jeans before making his way into Dean’s briefs. Slowly, tantalizingly, like he knows exactly what the waiting is doing to Dean, he pulls them off. Dean’s erection springs free. It is almost painfully hard, the head already leaking pre-cum.

Cas stares at it, a small devious half-smile on his face.

“I would like to pleasure you orally now, Dean,” he announces grandly.

Oh god. Only Cas could manage to take something so terrible and unsexy and make it sound like the world’s most wickedly depraved dirty talk.

As Castiel goes down on him, Dean arches and writhes against the sheets, clutching wildly at whatever he can grab and gasping Cas’s name like a prayer. Cas’s lips are warm and tight, every movement sending sweet, white-hot tremors of pleasure coursing through Dean, and before he knows it, Dean feels the pressure building at the base of his spine.

“Cas- Cas-” he pants, trying to tug Castiel’s mouth off his dick, “I’m- I’m gonna-” and then Cas does something incredibly hot and wicked with his tongue, and Dean’s coming like a teenager, and Castiel, that sly, knowing smile in his eyes, is swallowing, swallowing everything down like a pro.

Dean slumps against the bed, feeling like all his limbs have turned to jelly. He can almost swear that he still sees faint starbursts behind his eyelids. Weakly, he opens his eyes to see Cas smiling down at him. “Was that good, Dean?” the angel asks, all innocence.

Dean answers by yanking Cas down by the handcuffs, flipping them over and pulling the angel into a bruising kiss that leaves Castiel panting and rock-hard. “Dean…” Cas moans. His hips jerk, and he looks almost surprised at his body’s motions. He reaches for his dick, but Dean smoothly catches his hand and holds it above Cas’s head, pinning it down to the bed.

“Nu-uh,” Dean says. “My turn now.”

Smiling slyly, Dean undoes Castiel’s belt before sliding a hand down into Castiel’s underpants. The cuffs rattle as he rubs his hand over Castiel’s erection in long, languid strokes, slow and gentle, just a taste of what’s to come. But Cas won’t have any of that. He grabs Dean’s hand in his, quickening the pace of Dean’s strokes as he moans, all needy want and naked desire. Dean smirks and increases the pressure on Castiel’s dick, and it is so satisfying to see Cas buck and writhe on the sheets as he thrusts wildly into Dean’s hand, crying out Dean’s name.

Dean moves his hand to the tip of Castiel’s cock, squeezing down on the head as he reaches out with his other hand to cup Cas’s balls. Then, Cas is coming in Dean’s hand, hot quick spurts, yelling Dean’s name. Dean pulls his hand away, but he isn’t quite quick enough, and he raises an eyebrow at the ensuing state of the handcuffs, covered all over in cum.

“Sam’s gonna have a real fit when he sees these,” he comments dryly.

Cas smirks, before slowly, purposefully lifting the handcuffs to his mouth. His tongue darts out, and he slowly licks the handcuffs clean before moving onto Dean’s fingers. Wow. That is so hot.

Dean thinks his dick might actually be ready for round two. One good thing about being a demon? Goodbye, refractory periods.

Dean winks at Cas.

“Didn’t know you were into this kinda thing, Cas,” he says saucily, “Never pegged you as a whips and chains kind of guy. I still remember the days when you made hookers cry by talking to them about their daddy issues. What happened to the innocent little angel I knew?”

Cas smiles at him fondly. “You happened.”

Dean smirks. “My very first corruption. The other demons should be jealous. I’ve got mad skills.”

Cas smiles at him, radiant and ever so beautiful. Dean traces the curve of Cas’s cheek, smiling.

“You know,” he admits quietly, “I can see your true face now. I’ve always wondered what angels really looked like. I mean, Zachariah told me he had four faces and one of them was a _lion_. That sounded pretty... unappealing, yeah?” He laughs wryly.

“But you- you’re beautiful, Cas. It _hurts_ to look at you like this, you friggin’ holy lightshow. Like looking directly into the sun. It makes me feel like my eyes are burning up. But I… I don’t want to look away.”

Cas stares at Dean, eyes wide. He looks absurdly touched. The soft wonder in his eyes makes Dean feel warm and tender inside. It gives him the courage to say, “Cas- could I- could I see your wings?”

He ducks his head, feeling strangely shy as he admits, “I’ve always wanted to touch them. I used to fantasize about them, you know. Think about how they’d feel under my fingers. Would they be soft, like down feathers? Or electrifying- like touching pure light? I would imagine how good it’d feel, how you’d moan under my touch, how I’d take you apart with just the lightest brush of my fingers.”

Dean shakes his head, smiling humorlessly. “It made me feel so guilty. So dirty. I mean- who- who thinks such things about their best friend?” He pauses for a moment before continuing, “But now- now things are different. I want to touch them, Cas.”

He looks hesitantly at Cas. “Can I? …Please?”

Cas looks at him. His eyes are gentle and almost unbearably kind. “It’ll hurt you, Dean,” he says softly.

“I know. I don’t care. Please, Cas.”

Castiel spreads his wings.

At first it’s just shadows again, but then Dean uses his new senses and he sees them, beautiful and almost unbearably bright. The pinions of light unfurl beneath Dean and spread throughout the room, stretching so far that the insubstantial feathers of pure white light dip through Dean’s side table and the walls.

Dean strokes the pinions and watches Castiel shudder. The angel’s eyes are wide, pupils almost black with lust, and he lets out a low moan as Dean traces a light touch over one of his long flight feathers.

Dean chuckles. Curiosity prompts him to ask, “Is it like this for all angels? Are wings like... some kinda erogenous zone for you guys?"

Cas huffs and gives Dean a fondly amused look. “No, they aren’t. That would be terribly inconvenient, wouldn’t it? Our wings are no more sensitive than a human hand or a finger.”

When Dean looks at him in confusion, Castiel says softly, “But it’s different when it’s you touching them.”

Overcome with emotion, Dean kisses Castiel furiously. He strokes Castiel’s wings, letting his fingers trail lightly over each pinion as Castiel writhes beneath him. The touch makes his skin burn, like a mild sunburn, but Dean pays it no mind. All he cares about is the pleased sounds Castiel is making and the way he arches his wings into Dean’s touch, full of needy, desperate want.

After everything is over, they lie on the bed quietly, Cas snuggled against Dean’s chest, everything silent except for their quiet breaths. Dean breaks the silence with a soft chuckle.

“Aren’t we a right pair? An angel who’s not quite an angel, and a demon who’s not quite a demon…”

Cas turns his head to look at Dean. He laughs wryly but his gaze is soft as he says, “It seems that humanity leaves a stain on even the best of us.”

He smiles, and Dean swallows hard, overcome by the warmth in his chest at the sight of Castiel.

“This doesn’t solve anything, you know,” he says, “I’m still a demon. I’m always going to be a demon, no matter how much of Sam’s blood you force down my throat. How long is this going to last? I can stay here, take my ‘medicine’ every time I feel a killing urge come on, but really, what’s the point? I’m never going to be cured. I’m always going to be a monster. I’m always going to be like _this._ ”

Cas looks at him, and says softly, his gaze infinitely tender, “You’re no monster, Dean.” He reaches out to cup Dean’s face in his hand, and he smiles. “If I might be so bold as to borrow the words of a wise man, we’re all cursed. And I’d rather have you, Dean Winchester, cursed or not.”

Dean’s breath catches in his throat. He bows his head, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to the angel’s shoulder.

He whispers it into Castiel’s skin, a soft murmur somewhere in between a prayer and a confession, too low to be caught by the human ear. But Cas hears everything.

The angel presses a kiss, just a light brush of his lips, like a caress, to Dean’s shoulder blade. Slowly, his fingers move to cup the curve of Dean’s shoulder, tracing the echoes of his handprint and though the scar is healed over, the skin made new, and no physical traces of it remain, Dean can feel it ever present still, like a shining mark upon his soul.

“I love you too, Dean,” Castiel says softly. He smiles gently at Dean, and it makes Dean feel like everything has become warm and tender, like everything is right with the world, and there is nothing more that he could ever want. For the first time in a very long while, Dean feels that there is something to truly live for, a bright and burning spark of hope in this vast, pitiless universe.

In that one shining moment as he leans in and meets Castiel’s smile with a kiss, Dean feels human again, and it is the best feeling in the world.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only the epilogue left, folks! That should be up by the end of next week, fingers crossed :)


	18. The Pie is a Metaphor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean makes Castiel pie, and at long last, Sam finally gets a clue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it turns out I gave myself a really generous estimate on how long it'd take for me to churn the epilogue out xD Yay efficiency?

Dean is in the kitchen, his hands still stuck halfway in the dough mixture for his pie crust, when the thought occurs to him. He turns to Cas slowly and levels an accusing glare at the angel.

“Cas,” he says, eyes narrowed dangerously, “All this time we’ve been cuffed together, you knew… You knew exactly what you were doing… All the falling on me, the getting stuck in a doorway, that kiss at the diner, the closet thing—” His eyes widen in dawning horror. “Oh my god, _the shower_ —”

Cas’s lips twitch. His face is straight but his eyes are crinkling with laughter. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Dean. All these confusing human practices are obviously beyond me.” He gives Dean a bright, innocent smile. “I’m merely a baby in a trench coat, after all.”

Dean groans. “Jesus Christ, Cas! Will you stop with that already? You’re never gonna let me live that down, are you?”

Cas smiles at him and says sweetly, “No, I’m not.”

“You’re such a bastard. You sneaky son of a bitch. That was so embarrassing for me! You’re just awful. For an angel, you sure have a real devious streak.” After a beat, he adds, “I like it.”

Castiel smirks. “In all fairness, the doorway incident was really just an honest mistake. And I truly didn’t intend for us to end up squashed together in that closet.” He chuckles. “Let’s just call it a… happy accident.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Y’know, if this was your grand master plan to get into my pants, I have to say it kind of sucks.” He gives Cas a haughty look of derision. “Anyone told you you need to brush up on your flirting skills? C’mon. You need to step up your game, man. ‘Your form would be considered aesthetically pleasing’? What’s up with that?”

“I was significantly inebriated at that point in time!”

“Excuses, Cas.”

“Like you’re very much better, Dean Winchester? You compared me to _fries_. And before that, you were flirting with me through abysmally bad scriptwriting from a science fiction movie.”

Dean squawks. “I was not!” His face turns red. After a beat, he admits in a sheepish undertone, “Okay, maybe I was a little.”

Cas smiles triumphantly. “Well, my _‘grand master plan’_ worked in the end, didn’t it? So let’s just say I win this round, Dean.”

Dean sniffs affectedly. “At least _I_ know how to bake pie without setting the kitchen on fire.”

Cas frowns and opens his mouth to protest, but Dean waves a finger at him. “Uh-uh. Don’t go insulting the cook, Cas. Or you’re not getting any of this sweet morning-after cherry pie.”

Cas gives Dean an unimpressed look. “You said you were making this for me, Dean.”

Dean smirks. “Yeah, well… maybe I’ll just keep it for myself. All the more pie for me.”

“You wouldn’t.”

Dean laughs. His voice is fond as he says, “Oh fine, you got me. I wouldn’t.”

He winks at Cas mischievously. “But you gotta pony up before I give you the good stuff, Cas.”

Cas frowns at him in squinty-eyed confusion.

Smirking, Dean points at his apron. ‘Kiss the Cook’ reads the bright cheery font.

He is still smirking when Cas complies.

 

\---

 

Yawning loudly, Sam walks into the kitchen. He shuffles towards the coffee-maker in full caffeine-zombie mode, groggily rubbing the sleep from his eyes. It is not until he is three steps from the doorway that he realizes that he is not alone in the kitchen, and the heavenly aroma of freshly baked pie finally registers.

He looks up and spots Dean and Cas sitting at the kitchen table. Strangely, they don’t seem to have noticed his presence. There’s an empty pie tin in the middle of the table. Cas has a plate in front of him. On it is one last slice of what looks like the world’s most sinfully good cherry pie.

It looks utterly delicious. Sam’s not much of a pie person (that’s more of Dean’s thing) but damn does that pie look good. His mouth is almost watering just looking at it. Vaguely, he wonders where Dean and Cas got that pie from. It certainly can’t have been made by Castiel. The kitchen looks too unsinged for that.

Cas is looking down at the slice of pie, a little furrow between his brows. As Sam watches, he slowly puts his fork down. He pushes the plate to Dean, who looks at him in surprise.

“Oh. Uh. You don’t want it?” Dean says hesitantly, but the hopefulness in his eyes belies his reluctant tone.

Smiling, Castiel shakes his head. “You can have it, Dean.”

When Dean still does not take the pie, Cas nods at him encouragingly. “Go on.”

Dean looks down at the pie and back at Castiel, and from the conflicted expression on his face, Sam can see the battle taking place between Dean’s natural desire for pie and his conscience. Usually the latter is roundly curb-stomped in less time than it takes for Sam to blink, but today it appears that, miracle of miracles, Dean’s conscience has for once managed to scrape a thin victory. Dean pushes the plate back to Castiel with a small sigh.

“It’s your pie, Cas. I made it for you. You should have it,” he says, but he cannot quite hide the wistful longing in his eyes as he stares at the slice of pie sadly like a puppy watching a beloved toy being taken away from it.

Castiel gives Dean a knowing look that is tinged with mildly exasperated fondness. He pushes the plate back towards Dean. Smiling wryly, he says, tone dry, “I gave up an army for you, Dean. I think I can manage one slice of pie.”

A warm smile comes onto Dean’s face and he looks at Castiel as though he is Dean’s favorite thing in the universe, more than anything else, even pie. Forgotten, the last slice of pie sits on the table as Dean and Castiel stare into each other’s eyes, smiling tenderly.

 _Ding, ding, ding_ , goes Sam’s brain and he has one of those moments when all the clues align and suddenly, he is hit with the unshakeable realization that he has been a complete idiot.

 _Oh_ , thinks Sam. Oh _._

It seems that his plan to rehabilitate Dean via the handcuffs has really worked… with completely unintended consequences. Not that Sam’s complaining or anything. He’s always vaguely suspected that his brother wanted to bang the angel but dismissed it for being too ludicrous. It’s kinda nice to see his suspicions finally confirmed. Now everything suddenly makes so much more sense.

Sam briefly considers announcing his presence before Dean and Cas decide to start kissing or something, but then Dean smirks, and says very purposefully, looking at Sam sideways from the corner of his eyes, “I would love to eat your cherry pie, Cas.”

He winks for effect, and Cas rapidly reddens.

“Mmmm,” Dean says as he takes a big bite of the pie. “This is so good. Oh my god.” He lets out an extremely suggestive moan. “It’s _heavenly_. All that warm, wet goodness on my tongue. It’s _delicious_. All firm and hard on the outside, but so soft and gooey on the inside. _Mmmm. Yes_.”

Sam is torn between wanting to smack his face into his palm and wanting to clap his hands over his ears.

Cas is blushing bright red. Shiftily, he scoots his chair closer to the table and places his hands down on his lap in a very strategic manner.

Dean turns to Sam, smirking smugly. “Want some, Sam?”

It seems that some things about Dean will never change. Sam’s brother is such a giant troll. Sam gives Dean an exasperated look, or as Dean likes to call it, the bitchface™.

“No thanks. You enjoy yourself, Dean.”

As Dean laughs uproariously, Sam shakes his head in amused exasperation. He briefly considers offering to take the cuffs off, but then he thinks, _Let them enjoy it a little longer._

Really, who would have guessed that a pair of handcuffs would work such magic?

Chuckling, Sam gives himself a mental pat on the back as he walks out of the kitchen without his coffee, leaving Dean and Cas to enjoy their pie.

They’ve earned it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand that's a wrap. 
> 
> Boy has it been a real journey! All my love to my wonderful beta Carzla for bearing with my many inane questions and reading through everything without complaint. You're the best, babe :'D And a big thank you to everyone who's stuck around so far. Writing this fic just wouldn't have been the same without all the support and lovely comments. You guys rock <3
> 
> I have some ideas for a potential sequel, which will probably be a one-shot exploring the hilarity potential of Dean and Cas trashing the Bunker and traumatizing Sam with their epic bedroom adventures XD Yup, I'm a terrible person. Tee hee


End file.
